The 

COVERED  WAGON 


BY 

EMERSON  HOUGH 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  STORY  OF  THE  COW 
BOY/'  "THE   MAGNIFICENT  ADVENTURE," 
"THE  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE,"  "THE  SAGE- 
BRUSHER,"  ETC. 


D.  APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  ::  LONDON  ::  MCMXXIII 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,    BY 

EMERSON  HOUGH 


Copyright,    1933,   by   The   Curtis   Publishing    Co. 
PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAG* 

I. — YOUTH  MARCHES i 

II. — THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WORLD     .  17 

III. — THE  RENDEZVOUS        ....  21 

IV. — FEVER  OF  NEW  FORTUNES     .     .  34 

V. — THE  BLACK  SPANIARD     ...  42 

VI. — ISSUE  JOINED 49 

VII. — THE  JUMP-OFF 53 

VIII. — MAN  AGAINST  MAN         ...  60 

IX.— -THE  BRUTE 68 

X. — OLE  MISSOURY 75 

XI. — WHEN    ALL   THE   WORLD   WAS 

YOUNG 78 

XII.-— THE  DEAD  MEN'S  TALE    ...  85 

XIII.— WILD  FIRE 90 

XIV.— THE  Kiss 104 

XV.— THE  DIVISION 116 

XVI.— THE  PLAINS 126 

XVII. — THE  GREAT  ENCAMPMENT      .      .  129 

XVIII. — ARROW  AND  PLOW        .      .      .      .  137 

XIX. — BANION  OF  DONIPHAN'S    .      .      .  152 

XX. — THE  BUFFALO 156 

505853 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XXI. — THE  QUICKSANDS  .     .      .      .      .  166 

XXII. — A  SECRET  OF  Two      ....  174 

XXIII. — AN  ARMISTICE       .      .      .      .     .  179 

XXIV.— THE  ROAD  WEST        ....  182 

XXV. — OLD  LARAMIE 187 

XX VI— THE  FIRST  GOLD         ....  196 

XXVII. — Two  WHO  LOVED       .      .     .      .202 

XXVIIL— WHEN  A  MAID  MARRIES   ...  208 

XXIX. — THE  BROKEN  WEDDING     .      .      .  220 

XXX. — THE  DANCE  IN  THE  DESERT       .  231 

XXXI.— How,  COLA! 243 

XXXII. — THE  FIGHT  AT  THE  FORD       .     .  261 

XXXIII. — THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING       .  268 

XXXIV. — A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP          .  280 

XXXV.— GEE— WHOA— HAW!         ...  291 

XXXVI.— Two  LOVE  LETTERS     ....  297 

XXXVII. — JIM  BRIDGER  FORGETS       .      .      .  307 

XXXVIII. — WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL     .      .  317 

XXXIX. — THE  CROSSING 333 

XL. — OREGON!    OREGON!     ....  348 

XLI. — THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  SIERRAS    .  352 

XLII. — KIT  CARSON  RIDES      ....  357 

XLIII. — THE  KILLER  KILLED    ....  360 

XLIV.— YET  IF  LOVE  LACK     ....  368 

XLV. — THE     LIGHT    OF    THE     WHOLE 

WORLD 374 


The 

COVERED  WAGON 


The 

COVERED  WAGON 


CHAPTER  I 

YOUTH  MARCHES 

"T"    OOK  at  Jem  come,  Jesse!     More  and  more! 
1         Must  be  forty  or  fifty  families." 
*    *    Molly  Wingate,  middle-aged,   portly,  dark 
browed  and  strong,  stood  at  the  door  of  the  rude  tent 
which  for  the  time  made  her  home.    She  was  pointing 
down  the  road  which  lay  like  an  ecru  ribbon  thrown 
down  across  the  prairie  grass,  bordered  beyond  by  the 
timber-grown  bluffs  of  the  Missouri. 

Jesse  Wingate  allowed  his  team  of  harness-marked 
horses  to  continue  their  eager  drinking  at  the  water 
ing  hole  of  the  little  stream  near  which  the  camp  was 
pitched  until,  their  thirst  quenched,  they  began  bury 
ing  their  muzzles  and  blowing  into  the  water  in  sensu 
ous  enjoyment.  He  stood,  a  strong  and  tall  man  of 
perhaps  forty-five  years,  of  keen  blue  eye  and  short, 
close-matted,  tawny  beard.  His  garb  was  the  loose 
dress  of  the  outlying  settler  of  the  Western  lands 

I 


COVERED  WAGON 

three-quarters  of  a  century  ago.     A  farmer  he  must 
have  been  back  home. 

Could  this  encampment,  on  the  very  front  of  the 
American  civilization,  now  be  called  a  home?  Be 
yond  the  prairie  road  could  be  seen  a  double  furrow 
of  jet-black  glistening  sod,  framing  the  green  grass 
and  its  spangling  flowers,  first  browsing  of  the  plow 
on  virgin  soil.  It  might  have  been  the  opening  of  a 
farm.  But  if  so,  why  the  crude  bivouac?  Why  the 
gear  of  travelers?  Why  the  massed  arklike  wagons, 
the  scores  of  morning  fires  lifting  lazy  blue  wreaths  of 
smoke  against  the  morning  mists  ? 

The  truth  was  that  Jesse  Wingate,  earlier  and  im 
patient  on  the  front,  out  of  the  very  suppression  of 
energy,  had  been  trying  his  plow  in  the  first  white 
furrows  beyond  the  Missouri  in  the  great  year  of 
1848.  Four  hundred  other  near-by  plows  alike  were 
avid  for  the  soil  of  Oregon;  as  witness  this  long  line 
of  newcomers,  late  at  the  frontier  rendezvous. 

"It's  the  Liberty  wagons  from  down  river,"  said 
the  campmaster  at  length.  * 'Missouri  movers  and  set 
tlers  from  lower  Illinois.  It's  time.  We  can't  lie 
here  much  longer  waiting  for  Missouri  or  Illinois, 
either.  The  grass  is  up." 

"Well,  we'd  have  to  wait  for  Molly  to  end  her 
spring  term,  teaching  in  Clay  School,  in  Liberty,"  re 
joined  his  wife,  "else  why'd  we  send  her  there  to  grad 
uate?  Twelve  dollars  a  month,  cash  money,  ain't  to 
be  sneezed  at." 

2 


YOUTH  MARCHES 

"No;  nor  is  two  thousand  miles  of  trail  between 
here  and  Oregon,  before  snow,  to  be  sneezed  at,  either. 
If  Molly  ain't  with  those  wagons  I'll  send  Jed  over 
for  her  to-day.  If  I'm  going  to  be  captain  I  can't 
hold  the  people  here  on  the  river  any  longer,  with  May 
already  begun." 

"She'll  be  here  to-day,"  asserted  his  wife.  "She 
said  she  would.  Besides,  I  think  that's  her  riding  a 
little  one  side  the  road  now.  Not  that  I  know  who  all 
is  with  her.  One  young  man — two.  Well" — with 
maternal  pride — "Molly  ain't  never  lacked  for  beaus! 

"But  look  at  the  wagons  come!"  she  added.  "All 
the  country's  going  West  this  spring,  it  certainly  seems 
like." 

It  was  the  spring  gathering  of  the  west-bound 
wagon-trains,  stretching  from  old  Independence  to 
Westport  Landing,  the  spot  where  that  very  year  the 
new  name  of  Kansas  City  was  heard  among  the  emi 
grants  as  the  place  of  the  jump-off.  It  was  now  an 
hour  by  sun,  as  these  Western  people  would  have  said, 
and  the  low-lying  valley  mists  had  not  yet  fully  risen, 
so  that  the  atmosphere  for  a  great  picture  did  not 
lack. 

It  was  a  great  picture,  a  stirring  panorama  of  an 
earlier  day,  which  now  unfolded.  Slow,  swaying, 
stately,  the  ox  teams  came  on,  as  though  impelled  by 
and  not  compelling  the  fleet  of  white  canvas  sails.  The 
teams  did  not  hasten,  did  not  abate  their  speed,  but 
moved  in  an  unagitated  advance  that  gave  the  massed 

3 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

column  something  irresistibly  epochal  in  look. 

The  train,  foreshortened  to  the  watchers  at  the 
rendezvous,  had  a  well-spaced  formation — twenty 
wagons,  thirty,  forty,  forty-seven — as  Jesse  Wingate 
mentally  counted  them.  There  were  outriders;  there 
were  clumps  of  driven  cattle.  Along  the  flanks  walked 
tall  men,  who  flung  over  the  low-headed  cattle  an 
admonitory  lash  whose  keen  report  presently  could  be 
heard,  still  faint  and  far  off.  A  dull  dust  cloud  arose, 
softening  the  outlines  of  the  prairie  ships.  The  broad 
gestures  of  arm  and  trunk,  the  monotonous  soothing  of 
commands  to  the  sophisticated  kine  as  yet  remained 
vague,  so  that  still  it  was  properly  a  picture  done  on  a 
vast  canvas — that  of  the  frontier  in  '48;  a  picture  of 
might,  of  inevitableness.  Even  the  sober  souls  of  these 
waiters  rose  to  it,  felt  some  thrill  they  themselves  had 
never  analyzed. 

A  boy  of  twenty,  tall,  blond,  tousled,  rode  up  from 
the  grove  back  of  the  encampment  of  the  Wingate 
family. 

"You,  Jed?"  said  his  father.  "Ride  on  out  and  see 
if  Molly's  there." 

"Sure  she  is !"  commented  the  youth,  finding  a  plug 
in  the  pocket  of  his  jeans.  "That's  her.  Two  fellers, 
like  usual." 

"Sam  Woodhull,  of  course,"  said  the  mother,  still 
hand  over  eye.  "He  hung  around  all  winter,  telling 
how  him  and  Colonel  Doniphan  whipped  all  Mexico 

4 


YOUTH  MARCHES 

and  won  the  war.  If  Molly  ain't  in  a  wagon  of  her 
own,  it  ain't  his  fault,  anyways !  I'll  rest  assured  it's 
account  of  Molly's  going  out  to  Oregon  that  he's 
going  too!  Well!"  And  again,  "Well !" 

"Who's  the  other  fellow,  though?"  demanded  Jed. 
"I  can't  place  him  this  far." 

Jesse  Wringate  handed  over  his  team  to  his  son  and 
stepped  out  into  the  open  road,  moved  his  hat  in  an 
impatient  signal,  half  of  welcome,  half  of  command. 
It  apparently  was  observed. 

To  their  surprise,  it  was  the  unidentified  rider  who 
now  set  spur  to  his  horse  and  came  on  at  a  gallop 
ahead  of  the  train.  He  rode  carelessly  well,  a  born 
horseman.  In  no  more  than  a  few  minutes  he  could 
be  seen  as  rather  a  gallant  figure  of  the  border  cavalier 
— a  border  just  then  more  martial  than  it  had  been 
before  '46  and  the  days  of  "Fifty-Four  Forty  or 
Fight" 

A  shrewed  man  might  have  guessed  this  young 
man — he  was  no  more  than  twenty-eight — to  have  got 
some  military  air  on  a  border  opposite  to  that  of 
Oregon;  the  far  Southwest,  where  Taylor  and  Scott 
and  the  less  known  Doniphan  and  many  another  fight 
ing  man  had  been  adding  certain  thousands  of  leagues 
to  the  soil  of  this  republic.  He  rode  a  compact,  short- 
coupled,  cat-hammed  steed,  coal  black  and  with  a 
dashing  forelock  reaching  almost  to  his  red  nostrils — 
a  horse  never  reared  on  the  fat  Missouri  corn  lands. 
Neither  did  this  heavy  embossed  saddle  with  its  silver 

5 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

concho  decorations  then  seem  familiar  so  far  north; 
nor  yet  the  thin  braided-leather  bridle  with  its  hair 
frontlet  band  and  its  mighty  bit;  nor  again  the  great 
spurs  with  jingling  rowc1  bells.  This  rider's  mount 
and  trappings  spoke  the  far  and  new  Southwest,  just 
then  coming  into  our  national  ken. 

The  young  man  himself,  however,  was  upon  the  face 
of  his  appearance  nothing  of  the  swashbuckler.  True, 
in  his  close-cut  leather  trousers,  his  neat  boots,  his 
tidy  gloves,  his  rather  jaunty  broad  black  hat  of  felted 
beaver,  he  made  a  somewhat  raffish  figure  of  a  man 
as  he  rode  up,  weight  on  his  under  thigh,  sidewise, 
and  hand  on  his  horse's  quarters,  carelessly;  but  his 
clean  cut,  unsmiling  features,  his  direct  and  grave 
look  out  of  dark  eyes,  spoke  him  a  gentleman  of  his  day 
and  place,  and  no  mere  spectacular  pretender  assum 
ing  a  virtue  though  he  had  it  not. 

He  swung  easily  out  of  saddle,  his  right  hand  on 
the  tall,  broad  Spanish  horn  as  easily  as  though  rising 
from  a  chair  at  presence  of  a  lady,  and  removed  his 
beaver  to  this  frontier  woman  before  he  accosted  her 
husband.  His  bridle  he  flung  down  over  his  horse's 
head,  which  seemingly  anchored  the  animal,  spite  of 
its  loud  whinnying  challenge  to  these  near-by  stolid 
creatures  which  showed  harness  rubs  and  not  whitened 
saddle  hairs. 

"Good  morning,  madam,"  said  he  in  a  pleasant, 
quiet  voice.  "Good  morning,  sir.  You  are  Mr.  and 

6 


YOUTH  MARCHES 

Mrs.  Jesse  Wingate,  I  believe.  Your  daughter  yonder 
told  me  so." 

"That's  my  name,"  said  Jesse  Wingate,  eyeing  the 
newcomer  suspiciously,  but  advancing  with  ungloved 
hand  "You're  from  the  Liberty  train?" 

"Yes,  sir.  My  name  is  Banion — William  Banion. 
You  may  not  know  me.  My  family  were  Kentuckians 
before  my  father  came  out  to  Franklin.  I  started 
up  in  the  law  at  old  Liberty  town  yonder  not  so  long 
ago,  but  I've  been  away  a  great  deal." 

"The  law,  eh?"  Jesse  Wingate  again  looked  dis 
approval  of  the  young  man's  rather  pronouncedly  neat 
turnout.  "Then  you're  not  going  West?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am,  if  you  please,  sir.  I've  done  little 
else  all  my  life.  Two  years  ago  I  marched  with  all 
the  others,  with  Doniphan,  for  Mexico.  Well,  the 
war's  over,  and  the  treaty's  likely  signed.  I  thought 
it  high  time  to  march  back  home.  But  you  know  how 
it  is — the  long  trail's  in  my  blood  now.  I  can't  settle 
down." 

Wingate  nodded.  The  young  man  smilingly  went 
on: 

"I  want  to  see  how  it  is  in  Oregon.  What  with 
new  titles  and  the  like — and  a  lot  of  fighting  men  cast 
in  together  out  yonder,  too — there  ought  to  be  as 
much  law  out  there  as  here,  don't  you  think?  So  I'm 
going  to  seek  my  fortune  in  the  Far  West.  It's  too 
close  and  tame  in  here  now.  I'm" — he  smiled  just  a 

7 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

bit  more  obviously  and  deprecatingly — "I'm  leading 
yonder  caballad  of  our  neighbors,  with  a  bunch  of 
Illinois  and  Indiana  wagons.  They  call  me  Col. 
William  Banion.  It  is  not  right — I  was  no  more  than 
Will  Banion,  major  under  Doniphan.  I  am  not  that 


now." 


A  change,  a  shadow  came  over  his  face.  He  shook 
it  off  as  though  it  were  tangible. 

"So  I'm  at  your  service,  sir.  They  tell  me  you've 
been  elected  captain  of  the  Oregon  train.  I  wanted 
to  throw  in  with  you  if  I  might,  sir.  I  know  we're 
late — we  should  have  been  in  last  night.  I  rode  in  to 
explain  that.  May  we  pull  in  just  beside  you,  on  this 
water?" 

Molly  Wingate,  on  whom  the  distinguished  ad 
dress  of  the  stranger,  his  easy  manner  and  his  courtesy 
had  not  failed  to  leave  their  impression,  answered 
before  her  husband. 

"You  certainly  can,  Major  Banion." 

"Mister  Banion,  please." 

"Well  then,  Mister  Banion.  The  water  and  grass 
is  free.  The  day's  young.  Drive  in  and  light  down. 
You  said  you  saw  our  daughter,  Molly — I  know  you 
did,  for  that's  her  now." 

The  young  man  colored  under  his  bronze  of  tan, 
suddenly  shy. 

"I  did,"  said  he.  "The  fact  is,  I  met  her  earlier 
this  spring  at  Clay  Seminary,  where  she  taught.  She 
told  me  you-all  were  moving  West  this  spring — said 

8 


YOUTH  MARCHES 

this  was  her  last  day.     She  asked  if  she  might  ride 
out  with  our  wagons  to  the  rendezvous.     Well " 

"That's  a  fine  horse  you  got  there,"  interrupted 
young  Jed  Wingate.  "Spanish  ?" 

"Yes,  sir/' 

"Wild?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  now;  only  of  rather  good  spirit.  Ride 
him  if  you  like.  Gallop  back,  if  you'd  like  to  try 
him,  and  tell  my  people  to  come  on  and  park  in  here. 
I'd  like  a  word  or  so  with  Mr.  Wingate." 

With  a  certain  difficulty,  yet  insistent,  Jed  swung 
into  the  deep  saddle,  sitting  the  restive,  rearing  horse 
well  enough  withal,  and  soon  was  off  at  a  fast  pace 
down  the  trail.  They  saw  him  pull  up  at  the  head  of 
the  caravan  and  motion,  wide  armed,  to  the  riders, 
the  train  not  halting  at  all. 

He  joined  the  two  equestrian  figures  on  ahead,  the 
girl  and  the  young  man  whom  his  mother  had  named 
as  Sam  Woodhull.  They  could  see  him  shaking 
hands,  then  doing  a  curvet  or  so  to  show  off  his  newly 
borrowed  mount. 

"He  takes  well  to  riding,  your  son,"  said  the  new 
comer  approvingly. 

"He's  been  crazy  to  get  West,"  assented  the  father. 
"Wants  to  get  among  the  buffalo." 

"We  all  do,"  said  Will  Banion.  "None  left  in 
Kentucky  this  generation  back;  none  now  in  Missouri. 
The  Plains!"  His  eye  gleamed. 

9 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"That's  Sam  Woodhull  along,"  resumed  Molly  Win- 
gate.  "He  was  with  Doniphan." 

"Yes." 

Banion  spoke  so  shortly  that  the  good  dame,  owner 
of  a  sought- for  daughter,  looked  at  him  keenly. 

"He  lived  at  Liberty,  too.  I've  known  Molly  to 
write  of  him." 

"Yes?"  suddenly  and  with  vigor.  "She  knows  him 
then?" 

"Why,  yes." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Banion  simply.  "He  was  in  our  regi 
ment — captain  and  adjutant,  paymaster  and  quarter 
master-chief,  too,  sometimes.  The  Army  Regulations 
never  meant  much  with  Doniphan's  column.  We  did 
as  we  liked — and  did  the  best  we  could,  even  with 
paymasters  and  quartermasters!" 

He  colored  suddenly,  and  checked,  sensitive  to  a 
possible  charge  of  jealousy  before  this  keen-eyed 
mother  of  a  girl  whose  beauty  had  been  the  talk  of  the 
settlement  now  for  more  than  a  year. 

The  rumors  of  the  charm  of  Molly  Wingate — Little 
Molly,  as  her  father  always  called  her  to  distinguish 
her  from  her  mother — now  soon  were  to  have  actual 
and  undeniable  verification  to  the  eye  of  any  skeptic 
who  mayhap  had  doubted  mere  rumors  of  a  woman's 
beauty.  The  three  advance  figures — the  girl,  Wood- 
hull,  her  brother  Jed — broke  away  and  raced  over 
the  remaining  few  hundred  yards,  coming  up  abreast, 
laughing  in  the  glee  of  youth  exhilarated  by  the  feel 

10 


YOUTH  MARCHES 

of  good  horseflesh  under  knee  and  the  breath  of  a  vital 
morning  air. 

As  they  flung  off  Will  Banion  scarce  gave  a  look 
to  his  own  excited  steed.  He  was  first  with  a  hand 
to  Molly  Wingate  as  she  sprang  lightly  down,  antici 
pating  her  other  cavalier,  Woodhull,  who  frowned, 
none  too  well  pleased,  as  he  dismounted. 

Molly  Wingate  ran  up  and  caught  her  mother  in 
her  strong  young  arms,  kissing  her  roundly,  her  eyes 
shining,  her  cheeks  flushed  in  the  excitement  of  the 
hour,  the  additional  excitement  of  the  presence  of 
these  young  men.  She  must  kiss  someone. 

Yes,  the  rumors  were  true,  and  more  than  true. 
The  young  school-teacher  could  well  carry  her  title 
as  the  belle  of  old  Liberty  town  here  on  the  far  frontier 
A  lovely  lass  of  eighteen  years  or  so,  she  was,  blue 
of  eye  and  of  abundant  red-brown  hair  of  that  tint 
which  ever  has  turned  the  eyes  and  heads  of  men.  Her 
mouth,  smiling  to  show  white,  even  teeth,  was  wide 
enough  for  comfort  in  a  kiss,  and  turned  up  strongly 
at  the  corners,  so  that  her  face  seemed  always  sunny 
and  carefree,  were  it  not  for  the  recurrent  grave,  al 
most  somber  look  of  the  wide-set  eyes  in  moments  of 
repose. 

Above  the  middle  height  of  woman's  stature,  she 
had  none  of  the  lank  irregularity  of  the  typical  frontier 
woman  of  the  early  ague  lands;  but  was  round  and 
well  developed.  Above  the  open  collar  of  her  brown 
riding  costume  stood  the  flawless  column  of  a  fair 

II 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

and  tall  white  throat.  New  ripened  into  womanhood, 
wholly  fit  for  love,  gay  of  youth  and  its  racing  veins, 
what  wonder  Molly  Wingate  could  have  chosen  not 
from  two  but  twenty  suitors  of  the  best  in  all  that 
countryside?  Her  conquests  had  been  many  since  the 
time  when,  as  a  young  girl,  and  fulfilling  her  parents' 
desire  to  educate  their  daughter,  she  had  come  all  the 
way  from  the  Sangamon  country  of  Illinois  to  the 
best  school  then  existent  so  far  west — Clay  Seminary, 
of  quaint  old  Liberty. 

The  touch  of  dignity  gained  of  the  ancient  tradi 
tions  of  the  South,  never  lost  in  two  generations  west 
of  the  Appalachians,  remained  about  the  young  girl 
now,  so  that  she  rather  might  have  classed  above  her 
parents.  They,  moving  from  Kentucky  into  Indiana, 
from  Indiana  into  Illinois,  and  now  on  to  Oregon, 
never  in  all  their  toiling  days  had  forgotten  their 
reverence  for  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  who  once  were 
their  ancestors  east  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  They  valued 
education — felt  that  it  belonged  to  them,  at  least 
through  their  children. 

Education,  betterment,  progress,  advance — those 
things  perhaps  lay  in  the  vague  ambitions  of  twice  two 
hundred  men  who  now  lay  in  camp  at  the  border  of 
our  unknown  empire.  They  were  all  Americans — 
second,  third,  fourth  generation  Americans.  Wild, 
uncouth,  rude,  unlettered,  many  or  most  of  them,  none 
the  less  there  stood  among  them  now  and  again  some 
tall  flower  of  that  culture  for  which  they  ever  hun- 

12 


YOUTH  MARCHES 

gered;  for  which  they  fought;  for  which  they  now 
adventured  yet  again. 

Surely  American  also  were  these  two  young  men 
whose  eyes  now  unconsciously  followed  Molly  Win- 
gate  in  hot  craving  even  of  a  morning  thus  far  break  - 
fastless,  for  the  young  leader  had  ordered  his  wagons 
on  to  the  rendezvous  before  crack  of  day.  Of  the 
two,  young  Woodhull,  planter  and  man  of  means, 
mentioned  by  Molly's  mother  as  open  suitor,  himself 
at  first  sight  had  not  seemed  so  ill  a  figure,  either. 
Tall,  sinewy,  well  clad  for  the  place  and  day,  even 
more  foppish  than  Banion  in  boot  and  glove,  he  would 
have  passed  well  among  the  damsels  of  any  courthouse 
day.  The  saddle  and  bridle  of  his  mount  also  were 
a  trace  to  the  elegant,  and  the  horse  itself,  a  classy 
chestnut  that  showed  Blue  Grass  blood,  even  then 
had  cost  a  pretty  penny  somewhere,  that  was  sure. 

Sam  Woodhull,  now  moving  with  a  half  dozen 
wagons  of  his  own  out  to  Oregon,  was  reputed  well 
to  do;  reputed  also  to  be  well  skilled  at  cards,  at 
weapons  and  at  women.  Townsmen  accorded  him 
first  place  with  Molly  Wingate,  the  beauty  from  east 
of  the  river,  until  Will  Banion  came  back  from  the 
wars.  Since  then  had  been  another  manner  of  war, 
that  as  ancient  as  male  and  female. 

That  Banion  had  known  Woodhull  in  the  field  in 
Mexico  he  already  had  let  slip.  What  had  been  the 
cause  of  his  sudden  pulling  up  of  his  starting  tongue? 
Would  he  have  spoken  too  much  of  that  acquaintance? 

13 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Perhaps  a  closer  look  at  the  loose  lips,  the  high  cheeks, 
the  narrow,  close-set  eyes  of  young  Woodhull,  his 
rather  assertive  air,  his  slight,  indefinable  swagger, 
his  slouch  in  standing,  might  have  confirmed  some 
skeptic  disposed  to  analysis  who  would  have  guessed 
him  less  than  strong  of  soul  and  character.  For  the 
most  part,  such  skeptics  lacked. 

By  this  time  the  last  belated  unit  of  the  Oregon 
caravan  was  at  hand.  The  feature  of  the  dusty  drivers 
could  be  seen.  Unlike  Wingate,  the  newly  chosen 
master  of  the  train,  who  had  horses  and  mules  about 
him,  the  young  leader,  Banion,  captained  only  ox 
teams.  They  came  now,  slow  footed,  steady,  low 
headed,  irresistible,  indomitable,  the  same  locomotive 
power  that  carried  the  hordes  of  Asia  into  Eastern 
Europe  long  ago.  And  as  in  the  days  of  that  invasion 
the  conquerors  carried  their  households,  their  flocks 
and  herds  with  them,  so  now  did  these  half -savage 
Saxon  folk  have  with  them  their  all. 

Lean  boys,  brown,  barefooted  girls  flanked  the 
trail  with  driven  stock.  Chickens  clucked  in  coops  at 
wagon  side.  Uncounted  children  thrust  out  tousled 
heads  from  the  openings  of  the  canvas  covers.  Dogs 
beneath,  jostling  the  tar  buckets,  barked  in  hostile 
salutation.  Women  in  slatted  sunbonnets  turned  im 
passive  gaze  from  the  high  front  seats,  back  of  which, 
swung  to  the  bows  by  leather  loops,  hung  the  inevitable 
family  rifle  in  each  wagon.  And  now,  at  the  tail  gate 


YOUTH  MARCHES 

of  every  wagon,  lashed  fast  for  its  last  long  journey, 
hung  also  the  family  plow. 

It  was  '48,  and  the  grass  was  up.  On  to  Oregon! 
,The  ark  of  our  covenant  with  progress  was  passing 
out.  Almost  it  might  have  been  said  to  have  held  every 
living  thing,  like  that  other  ark  of  old. 

Banion  hastened  to  one  side,  where  a  grassy  level 
beyond  the  little  stream  still  offered  stance.  He  raised 
a  hand  in  gesture  to  the  right.  A  sudden  note  of  com 
mand  came  into  his  voice,  lingering  from  late  military 
days. 

"By  the  right  and  left  flank— wheel!  March!" 

With  obvious  training,  the  wagons  broke  apart, 
alternating  right  and  left,  until  two  long  columns  were 
formed.  Each  of  these  advanced,  curving  out,  then 
drawing  in,  until  a  long  ellipse,  closed  at  front  and 
rear,  was  formed  methodically  and  without  break  or 
flaw.  It  was  the  barricade  of  the  Plains,  the  moving 
fortresses  of  our  soldiers  of  fortune,  going  West,  across 
the  Plains,  across  the  Rockies,  across  the  deserts  that 
lay  beyond.  They  did  not  know  all  these  dangers, 
but  they  thus  were  ready  for  any  that  might  come. 

"Look,  mother!"  Molly  Wingate  pointed  witli 
kindling  eye  to  the  wagon  maneuver.  "We  trained 
them  all  day  yesterday,  and  long  before.  Perfect!" 

Her  gaze  mayhap  sought  the  tall  figure  of  the 
young  commander,  chosen  by  older  men  above  his 
fellow  townsman,  Sam  Woodhull,  as  captain  of  the 

15 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Liberty  train.  But  he  now  had  other  duties  in  his  own 
wagon  group. 

Ceased  now  the  straining  creak  of  gear  and  came 
rattle  of  yokes  as  the  pins  were  loosed.  Cattle  guards 
appeared  and  drove  the  work  animals  apart  to  graze. 
Women  clambered  down  from  wagon  seats.  Sober- 
faced  children  gathered  their  little  arms  full  of  wood 
for  the  belated  breakfast  fires;  boys  came  down  for 
water  at  the  stream. 

The  west-bound  paused  at  the  Missouri,  as  once 
they  had  paused  at  the  Don. 

A  voice  arose,  of  some  young  man  back  among  the 
wagons  busy  at  his  work,  paraphrasing  an  ante-bellum 
air: 

Oh,  then,  Susannah, 
Don't  you  cry  fer  me! 
I'm  goin*  out  to  Oregon, 
With  my  banjo  on  my  knee! 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    EDGE    OF  THE    WORLD 

MORE  than  two  thousand  men,  women  and 
children  waited  on  the  Missouri  for  the 
green  fully  to  tinge  the  grasses  of  the 
prairies  farther  west.  The  waning  town  of  In 
dependence  had  quadrupled  its  population  in  thirty 
days.  Boats  discharged  their  customary  western  cargo 
at  the  newer  landing  on  the  river,  not  far  above  that 
town;  but  it  all  was  not  enough.  Men  of  upper 
Missouri  and  lower  Iowa  had  driven  in  herds  of  oxen, 
horses,  mules;  but  there  were  not  enough  of  these. 
Rumors  came  that  a  hundred  wagons  would  take  the 
Platte  this  year  via  the  Council  Bluffs,  higher  up  the 
Missouri;  others  would  join  on  from  St.  Jo  and 
Leavenworth. 

March  had  come,  when  the  wild  turkey  gobbled 
and  strutted  resplendent  in  the  forest  lands.  April 
had  passed,  and  the  wild  fowl  had  gone  north.  May, 
and  the  upland  plovers  now  were  nesting  all  across 
the  prairies.  But  daily  had  more  wagons  come,  and 
neighbors  had  waited  for  neighbors,  tardy  at  the  great 
rendezvous.  The  encampment,  scattered  up  and  down 
the  river  front,  had  become  more  and  more  congested. 

17 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Men  began  to  know  one  another,  families  became  ac 
quainted,  the  gradual  sifting  and  shifting  in  social 
values  began.  Knots  and  groups  began  to  talk  of 
some  sort  of  accepted  government  for  the  common 
!  good. 

They  now  were  at  the  edge  of  the  law.  Organized 
society  did  not  exist  this  side  of  the  provisional  gov 
ernment  of  Oregon,  devised  as  a  modus  vivendi  dur 
ing  the  joint  occupancy  of  that  vast  region  with  Great 
Britian — an  arrangement  terminated  not  longer  than 
two  years  before.  There  must  be  some  sort  of  law 
and  leadership  between  the  Missouri  and  the  Columbia. 
Amid  much  bickering  of  petty  politics,  Jesse  Wingate 
had  some  four  days  ago  been  chosen  for  the  thankless 
task  of  train  captain.  Though  that  office  had  small 
authority  and  less  means  of  enforcing  its  commands, 
none  the  less  the  train  leader  must  be  a  man  of  courage, 
resource  and  decision.  Those  of  the  earlier  arrivals 
who  passed  by  his  well-organized  camp  of  forty-odd 
wagons  from  the  Sangamon  country  of  Illinois  said 
that  Wingate  seemed  to  know  the  business  of  the 
trail.  His  affairs  ran  smoothly,  he  was  well  equipped 
and  seemed  a  man  of  means.  Some  said  he  had  three 
thousand  in  gold  at  the  bottom  of  his  cargo.  More 
over — and  this  appeared  important  among  the  Northern 
element,  at  that  time  predominant  in  the  rendezvous — 
he  was  not  a  Calhoun  Secesh,  or  even  a  Benton  Demo 
crat,  but  an  out  and  out,  antislavery,  free-soil  man. 
And  the  provisional  constitution  of  Oregon,  devised 

18 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WORLD 

by  thinking  men  of  two  great  nations,  had  said  that 
Oregon  should  be  free  soil  forever. 

Already  there  were  mutter  ings  in  1848  of  the  com 
ing  conflict  which  a  certain  lank  young  lawyer  of 
Springfield,  in  the  Sangamon  country — Lincoln,  his 
name  was — two  years  ago  among  his  personal  friends 
had  predicted  as  inevitable.  In  a  personnel  made  up 
of  bold  souls  from  both  sides  the  Ohio,  politics  could 
not  be  avoided  even  on  the  trail;  nor  were  these  men 
the  sort  to  avoid  politics.  Sometimes  at  their  camp 
fire,  after  the  caravan  election,  Wingate  and  his  wife, 
their  son  Jed,  would  compare  notes,  in  a  day  when 
personal  politics  and  national  geography  meant  more 
than  they  do  to-day. 

"Listen,  son,"  Wingate  one  time  concluded.  "All 
that  talk  of  a  railroad  across  this  country  to  Oregon 
is  silly,  of  course.  But  it's  all  going  to  be  one  country. 
The  talk  is  that  the  treaty  with  Mexico  must  give  us  a 
slice  of  land  from  Texas  to  the  Pacific,  and  a  big  one ; 
all  of  it  was  taken  for  the  sake  of  slavery.  Not  so 
Oregon — that's  free  forever.  This  talk  of  splitting 
this  country,  North  and  South,  don't  go  with  me.  The 
Alleghanies  didn't  divide  it.  Burr  couldn't  divide  it. 
The  Mississippi  hasn't  divided  it,  or  the  Missouri,  so 
rest  assured  the  Ohio  can't.  No,  nor  the  Rockies 
can't!  A  railroad?  No,  of  course  not.  But  all  the 
same,  a  practical  wagon  road  from  free  soil  to  free 
soil — I  reckon  that  was  my  platform,  like  enough. 
It  made  me  captain." 

19 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"No,  'twasn't  that,  Jesse,"  said  his  wife.  "That 
ain't  what  put  you  in  for  train  captain.  It  was  your 
blamed  impatience.  Some  of  them  lower  loway  men, 
them  that  first  nominated  you  in  the  train  meeting — 
town  meeting — what  you  call  it,  they  seen  where  you'd 
been  plowing  along  here  just  to  keep  your  hand  in. 
One  of  them  says  to  me,  'Plowing,  hey?  Can't  wait? 
Well,  that's  what  we're  going  out  for,  ain't  it — to 
plow?'  says  he.  'That's  the  clean  quill,'  says  he.  So 
they  'lected  you,  Jesse.  And  the  Lord  ha'  mercy  on 
your  soul!" 

Now  the  arrival  of  so  large  a  new  contingent  as 
this  of  the  Liberty  train  under  young  Banion  made 
some  sort  of  post-election  ratification  necessary,  so  that 
Wingate  felt  it  incumbent  to  call  the  head  men  of  the 
late  comers  into  consultation  if  for  no  better  than 
reasons  of  courtesy.  He  dispatched  his  son  Jed  to  the 
Banion  park  to  ask  the  attendance  of  Banion,  Wood- 
hull  and  such  of  his  associates  as  he  liked  to  bring,  at 
any  suiting  hour.  Word  came  back  that  the  Liberty 
men  would  join  the  Wingate  conference  around  eleven 
of  that  morning,  at  which  time  the  hour  of  the  jump- 
off  could  be  set 


CHAPTER   III 

THE    RENDEZVOUS 

AS  to  the  start  of  the  great  wagon  train,  little 
time,  indeed,  remained.     For  days,  in  some 
instances  for  weeks,  the  units  of  the  train  had 
lain  here  on  the  border,  and  the  men  were  growing 
restless.     Some  had  come  a  thousand  miles  and  now 
were  keen  to  start  out  for  more  than  two  thousand 
miles  additional.    The  grass  was  up.     The  men  from 
Illinois,    Indiana,    Ohio,    Iowa,    Missouri,    Kentucky, 
Arkansas  fretted  on  the  leash. 

All  along  the  crooked  river  front,  on  both  sides  from 
Independence  to  the  river  landing  at  Westport,  the 
great  spring  caravan  lay  encamped,  or  housed  in  town. 
Now,  on  the  last  days  of  the  rendezvous,  a  sort  of 
hysteria  seized  the  multitude.  The  sound  of  rifle  fire 
was  like  that  of  a  battle — every  man  was  sighting-in 
his  rifle.  Singing  and  shouting  went  on  everywhere. 
Someone  fresh  from  the  Mexican  War  had  brought 
a  drum,  another  a  bugle.  Without  instructions,  these 
began  to  sound  their  summons  and  continued  all  day 
long,  at  such  times  as  the  performers  could  spare  from 
drink. 

The  Indians  of  the  friendly  tribes — Otos,  Kaws, 
O sages — come  in  to  trade,  looked  on  in  wonder  at  the 

21 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

revelings  of  the  whites.  The  straggling  street  of  each 
of  the  near-by  river  towns  was  full  of  massed  wagons. 
The  treble  line  of  white  tops,  end  to  end,  lay  like  a 
vast  serpent,  curving,  ahead  to  the  West.  Rivalry  for 
the  head  of  the  column  began.  The  sounds  of  the 
bugle  set  a  thousand  uncoordinated  wheels  spas 
modically  in  motion.  Organization,  system  were  as 
yet  unknown  in  this  rude  and  dominant  democracy. 
Need  was  therefore  for  this  final  meeting  in  the  in 
terest  of  law,  order  and  authority.  Already  some 
wagons  had  broken  camp  and  moved  on  out  into  the 
main  traveled  road,  which  lay  plain  enough  on  west 
ward,  among  the  groves  and  glades  of  the  valley  of 
the  Kaw.  Each  man  wanted  to  be  first  to  Oregon,  no 
man  wished  to  take  the  dust  of  his  neighbor's  wagon. 

Wingate  brought  up  all  these  matters  at  the  train 
meeting  of  some  three  score  men  which  assembled 
under  the  trees  of  his  own  encampment  at  eleven 
of  the  last  morning.  Most  of  the  men  he  knew. 
Banion  unobtrusively  took  a  seat  well  to  the  rear  of 
those  who  squatted  on  their  heels  or  lolled  full  length 
on  the  grass. 

After  the  fashion  of  the  immemorial  American 
town  meeting,  the  beginning  of  all  our  government, 
Wingate  called  the  meeting  to  order  and  stated  its  pur 
poses.  He  then  set  forth  his  own  ideas  of  the  best 
manner  for  handling  the  trail  work. 

His  plan,  as  he  explained,  was  one  long  earlier 
perfected  in  the  convoys  of  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail. 

22 


THE  RENDEZVOUS 

The  wagons  were  to  travel  in  close  order.  Four 
parallel  columns,  separated  by  not  too  great  spaces, 
were  to  be  maintained  as  much  as  possible,  more 
especially  toward  nightfall.  Of  these,  the  outer  two 
were  to  draw  in  together  when  camp  was  made,  the 
other  two  to  angle  out,  wagon  lapping  wagon,  front 
and  rear,  thus  making  an  oblong  corral  of  the  wagons, 
into  which,  through  a  gap,  the  work  oxen  were  to  be 
driven  every  night  after  they  had  fed.  The  tents  and 
fires  were  to  be  outside  of  the  corral  unless  in  case  of 
an  Indian  alarm,  when  the  corral  would  represent  a 
fortress. 

-  The  transport  animals  were  to  be  hobbled  each  night 
A  guard,  posted  entirely  around  the  corral  and  camp, 
was  to  be  put  out  each  night.  Each  man  and  each  boy 
above  fourteen  was  to  be  subject  to  guard  duty  under 
the  ancient  common  law  of  the  Plains,  and  from  this 
duty  no  man  might  hope  excuse  unless  actually  too 
ill  to  walk;  nor  could  any  man  offer  to  procure  any 
substitute  for  himself.  The  watches  were  to  be  set 
as  eight,  each  to  stand  guard  one- fourth  part  of 
alternate  nights,  so  that  each  man  would  get  every 
other  night  undisturbed. 

r  There  were  to  be  lieutenants,  one  for  each  of  the 
four  parallel  divisions  of  the  train;  also  eight 
sergeants  of  the  guard,  each  of  whom  was  to  select 
and  handle  the  men  of  the  watch  under  him,  •  No 
wagon  might  change  its  own  place  in  the  train  after  the 
istart,  dust  or  no  dust 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

When  Wingate  ended  his  exposition  and  looked 
around  for  approval  it  was  obvious  that  many  of  these 
regulations  met  with  disfavor  at  the  start.  The  demo 
cracy  of  the  train  was  one  in  which  each  man  wanted 
his  own  way.  Leaning  head  to  head,  speaking  low, 
men  grumbled  at  all  this  fuss  and  feathers  and  Army 
stuff.  Some  of  these  were  friends  and  backers  in  the 
late  election.  Nettled  by  their  silence,  or  by  theii; 
murmured  comments,  Wingate  arose  again. 

"Well,  you  have  heard  my  plan,  men,"  said  he. 
"The  Santa  Fe  men  worked  it  up,  and  used  it  for 
years,  as  you  all  know.  They  always  got  through. 
If  there's  anyone  here  knows  a  better  way,  and  one 
that's  got  more  experience  back  of  it,  I'd  like  to  have 
him  get  up  and  say  so." 

Silence  for  a  time  greeted  this  also.  The  Northern 
men,  Wingate's  partisans,  looked  uncomfortably  one 
to  the  other.  It  was  young  Woodhull,  of  the  Liberty 
contingent,  who  rose  at  length. 

"What  Cap'n  Wingate  has  said  sounds  all  right  to 
me,"  said  he.  "He's  a  new  friend  of  mine — I  never 
saw  him  till  two-three  hours  ago — but  I  know  about 
him.  What  he  says  about  the  Santa  Fe  fashion  I 
know  for  true.  As  some  of  you  know,  I  was  out  that 
way,  up  the  Arkansas,  with  Doniphan,  for  the  Stars 
and  Stripes.  Talk  about  wagon  travel — you  got  to 
have  a  regular  system  or  you  have  everything  in 
mess.  This  here,  now,  is  a  lot  like  so  many  volunteers 
enlisting  for  war.  There's  always  a  sort  of  prelimi- 

24 


THE  RENDEZVOUS 

nary  election  of  officers;  sort  of  shaking  down  and 
shaping  up.  I  wasn't  here  when  Cap'n  Wingate  was 
elected — our  wagons  were  some  late — but  speaking 
for  our  men,  I'd  move  to  ratify  his  choosing,  and  that 
means  to  ratify  his  regulations.  I'm  wondering  if  I 
don't  get  a  second  for  that  ?" 

Some  of  the  be  whiskered  men  who  sat  about  him 
stirred,  but  cast  their  eyes  toward  their  own  captain, 
young  Banion,  whose  function  as  their  spokesman  had 
thus  been  usurped  by  his  defeated  rival,  Woodhull. 
Perhaps  few  of  them  suspected  the  argumentum  ad 
hominem — or  rather  ad  feminam — in  Woodhull' s 
speech. 

Banion  alone  knew  this  favor-currying  when  he 
saw  it,  and  knew  well  enough  the  real  reason.  It  was 
Molly!  Rivals  indeed  they  were,  these  two,  and  in 
more  ways  than  one.  But  Banion  held  his  peace  until 
one  quiet  father  of  a  family  spoke  up. 

"I  reckon  our  own  train  captain,  that  we  elected  in 
case  we  didn't  throw  in  with  the  big  train,  had  ought 
to  say  what  he  thinks  about  it  all." 

Will  Banion  now  rose  composedly  and  bowed  to  the 
leader. 

"I'm  glad  to  second  Mr.  Woodhull's  motion  to 
throw  our  vote  and  our  train  for  Captain  Wingate 
and  the  big  train,"  said  he.  "We'll  ratify  his  cap 
taincy,  won't  we?" 

The  nods  of  his  associates  now  showed  assent,  and 
Wingate  needed  no  more  confirmation. 

25 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"In  general,  too,  I  would  ratify  Captain  Wingate's 
scheme.  But  might  I  make  a  few  suggestions?'* 

"Surely — go  on."     Wingate  half  rose. 

"Well  then,  I'd  like  to  point  out  that  we've  got 
twice  as  far  to  go  as  the  Santa  Fe  traders,  and  over  a 
very  different  country — more  dangerous,  less  known, 
harder  to  travel.  We've  many  times  more  wagons 
than  any  Santa  Fe  train  ever  had,  and  we've  hundreds 
of  loose  cattle  along.  That  means  a  sweeping  off  of 
the  grass  at  every  stop,  and  grass  we've  got  to  have 
or  the  train  stops. 

"Besides  our  own  call  on  grass,  I  know  there'll  be 
five  thousand  Mormons  at  least  on  the  trail  ahead  of 
us  this  spring — they've  crossed  the  river  from  here  to 
the  Bluffs,  and  they're  out  on  the  Platte  right  now. 
We  take  what  grass  they  leave  us. 

"What  I'm  trying  to  get  at,  captain,  is  this :  We 
might  have  to  break  into  smaller  detachments  now  and 
again.  We  could  not  possibly  always  keep  aligrment 
in  four  columns." 

"And  then  we'd  be  open  to  any  Indian  attack," 
interrupted  Woodhull. 

"We  might  have  to  fight  some  of  the  time,  yes," 
rejoined  Banion;  "but  we'll  have  to  travel  all  the  time, 
and  we'll  have  to  graze  our  stock  all  the  time.  On 
that  one  basic  condition  our  safety  rests — grass  and 
plenty  of  it.  We're  on  a  long  journey. 

"You  see,  gentlemen,"  he  added,  smiling,  "I  was 
with  Doniphan  also.  We  learned  a  good  many  things. 

26 


THE  RENDEZVOUS 

For  instance,  I'd  rather  see  each  horse  on  a  thirty-foot 
picket  rope,  anchored  safe  each  night,  than  to  trust  to 
any  hobbles.  A  homesick  horse  can  travel  miles,  hob 
bled,  in  a  night.  Horses  are  a  lot  of  trouble. 

"Now,  I  see  that  about  a  fourth  of  our  people, 
including  Captain  Wingate,  have  horses  and  mules  and 
not  ox  transport.  I  wish  they  all  could  trade  for  oxen 
before  they  start.  Oxen  last  longer  and  fare  better. 
They  are  easier  to  herd.  They  can  be  used  for  food 
in  the  hard  first  year  out  in  Oregon.  The  Indians  don't 
steal  oxen — they  like  buffalo  better — but  they'll  take 
any  chance  to  run  off  horses  or  even  mules.  If  they 
do,  that  means  your  women  and  children  are  on  foot. 
You  know  the  story  of  the  Donner  party,  two  years 
ago — on  foot,  in  the  snow.  They  died,  and  worse 
than  died,  just  this  side  of  California." 

Men  of  Iowa,  of  Illinois,  Ohio,  Indiana,  began  to 
nod  to  one  another,  approving  the  words  of  this  young 
man. 

"He  talks  sense,"  said  a  voice  aloud. 

"Well,  I'm  talking  a  whole  lot,  I  know,"  said  Ban- 
ion  gravely,  "but  this  is  the  time  and  place  for  our 
talking.  I'm  for  throwing  in  with  the  Wingate  train, 
as  I've  said.  But  will  Captain  Wingate  let  me  add  even 
just  a  few  words  more? 

"For  instance,  I  would  suggest  that  we  ought  to 
have  a  record  of  all  our  personnel.  Each  man  ought 
to  be  required  to  give  his  own  name  and  late  residence, 
and  the  names  of  all  in  his  party.  He  should  be  obliged 

27 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

to  show  that  his  wagon  is  in  good  condition,  with 
spare  bolts,  yokes,  tires,  bows  and  axles,  and  extra 
shoes  for  the  stock.  Each  wagon  ought  to  be  required 
to  carry  anyhow  half  a  side  of  rawhide,  and  the  usual 
tools  of  the  farm  and  the  trail,  as  well  as  proper  weap 
ons  and  abundance  of  ammunition. 

"No  man  ought  to  be  allowed  to  start  with  this 
caravan  with  less  supplies,  for  each  mouth  of  his 
wagon,  than  one  hundred  pounds  of  flour.  One  hun 
dred  and  fifty  or  even  two  hundred  would  be  much 
better — there  is  loss  and  shrinkage.  At  least  half  as 
much  of  bacon,  twenty  pounds  of  coffee,  fifty  of  sugar 
would  not  be  too  much  in  my  own  belief.  About 
double  the  pro  rata  of  the  Santa  Fe  caravans  is  little 
enough,  and  those  whose  transport  power  will  let  them 
carry  more  supplies  ought  to  start  full  loaded,  for  no 
man  can  tell  the  actual  duration  of  this  journey,  or 
what  food  may  be  needed  before  we  get  across.  One 
may  have  to  help  another." 

Even  Wingate  joined  in  the  outspoken  approval  of 
this,  and  Banion,  encouraged,  went  on: 

"Some  other  things,  men,  since  you  have  asked  each 
man  to  speak  freely.  We're  not  hunters,  but  home 
makers.  Each  family,  I  suppose,  has  a  plow  and  seed 
for  the  first  crop.  We  ought,  too,  to  find  out  all  our 
blacksmiths,  for  I  promise  you  we'll  need  them.  We 
ought  to  have  a  half  dozen  forges  and  as  many  anvils, 
and  a  lot  of  irons  for  the  wagons. 

"I  suppose,  too,  you've  located  all  your  doctors ;  also 
28 


THE  RENDEZVOUS 

all  your  preachers — you  needn't  camp  them  all  to 
gether.  Personally  I  believe  in  Sunday  rest  and  Sun 
day  services.  We're  taking  church  and  state  and  home 
and  law  along  with  us,  day  by  day,  men,  and  we're 
not  just  trappers  and  adventurers.  The  fur  trade's 
gone. 

"I  even  think  we  ought  to  find  out  our  musicians — 
it's  good  to  have  a  bugler,  if  you  can.  And  at  night, 
when  the  people  are  tired  and  disheartened,  music  is 
good  to  help  them  pull  together." 

The  bearded  men  who  listened  nodded  yet  again. 

"About  schools,  now — the  other  trains  that  went 
out,  the  Applegates  in  1843,  tne  Donners  of  1846, 
each  train,  I  believe,  had  regular  schools  along,  with 
hours  each  day. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  right  about  all  this?  I'm  sure 
I  don't  want  Captain  Wingate  to  be  offended.  I'm  not 
dividing  his  power.  I'm  only  trying  to  stiffen  it." 

Woodhull  arose,  a  sneer  on  his  face,  but  a  hand 
pushed  him  down.  A  tall  Missourian  stood  before 
him. 

"Right  ye  air,  Will!"  said  he.  "Ye've  an  old  head, 
an*  we  kin  trust  hit.  Ef  hit  wasn't  Cap'n  Wingate  is 
more  older  than  you,  an'  already  done  elected,  I'd  be 
for  choosin'  ye  fer  cap'n  o'  this  here  hull  train  right 
now.  Seein'  hit's  the  way  hit  is,  I  move  we  vote  to 
do  what  Will  Banion  has  said  is  fitten.  An'  I  move 
we-uns  throw  in  with  the  big  train,  with  Jess  Wingate 
for  cap'n.  An*  I  move  we  allow  one  more  day  to  git 

29 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

in  supplies  an'  fixin's,  an'  trade  hosses  an*  mules  an' 
oxens,  an*  then  we  start  day  atter  to-morrow  mornin' 
twhen  the  bugle  blows.  Then  hooray  fer  Oregon !" 

There  were  cheers  and  a  general  rising,  as  though 
after  finished  business,  which  greeted  this.  Jesse  Win- 
gate,  somewhat  crestfallen  and  chagrined  over  the  for 
ward  ways  of  this  young  man,  of  whom  he  never  had 
heard  till  that  very  morning,  put  a  perfunctory  motion 
or  so,  asked  loyalty  and  allegiance,  and  so  forth. 

But  what  they  remembered  was  that  he  appointed  as 
his  wagon-column  captains  Sam  Woodhull,  of  Mis 
souri;  Caleb  Price,  an  Ohio  man  of  substance;  Simon 
Hall,  an  Indiana  merchant,  and  a  farmer  by  name 
of  Kelsey,  from  Kentucky.  To  Will  Banion  the  train 
master  assigned  the  most  difficult  and  thankless  task 
of  the  train,  the  captaincy  of  the  cow  column;  that  is 
to  say,  the  leadership  of  the  boys  and  men  whose 
families  were  obliged  to  drive  the  loose  stock  of  the 
train. 

There  were  sullen  mutterings  over  this  in  the  Lib 
erty  column.  Men  whispered  they  would  not  follow 
Woodhull.  As  for  Banion,  he  made  no  complaint, 
but  smiled  and  shook  hands  with  Wingate  and  all  his 
lieutenants  and  declared  his  own  loyalty  and  that  of 
his  men;  then  left  for  his  own  little  adventure  of  a 
half  dozen  wagons  which  he  was  freighting  out  to 
Laramie — bacon,  flour  and  sugar,  for  the  most  part; 
each  wagon  driven  by  a  neighbor  or  a  neighbor's  son. 
Among  these  already  arose  open  murmurs  of  discon- 

30 


THE  RENDEZVOUS 

tent  over  the  way  their  own  contingent  had  been 
treated.  Banion  had  to  mend  a  potential  split  before 
the  first  wheel  had  rolled  westward  up  the  Kaw. 

The  men  of  the  meeting  passed  back  among  their 
neighbors  and  families,  and  spoke  with  more  serious 
ness  than  hitherto.  The  rifle  firing  ended,  the  hilarity 
lessened  that  afternoon.  In  the  old  times  the  keel- 
boatmen  bound  west  started  out  singing.  The  pack- 
train  men  of  the  fur  trade  went  shouting  and  shooting, 
and  the  confident  hilarity  of  the  Santa  Fe  wagon  cara 
vans  was  a  proverb.  But  now,  here  in  the  great  Ore 
gon  train,  matters  were  quite  otherwise.  There  were 
women  and  children  along.  An  unsmiling  gravity 
marked  them  all.  When  the  dusky  velvet  of  the 
prairie  night  settled  on  almost  the  last  day  of  the  ren 
dezvous  it  brought  a  general  feeling  of  anxiety,  dread, 
uneasiness,  fear.  Now,  indeed,  and  at  last,  all  these 
realized  what  was  the  thing  that  they  had  undertaken. 

To  add  yet  more  to  the  natural  apprehensions  of 
men  and  women  embarking  on  so  stupendous  an  adven 
ture,  all  manner  of  rumors  now  continually  passed 
from  one  company  to  another.  It  was  said  that  five 
thousand  Mormons,  armed  to  the  teeth,  had  crossed 
the  river  at  St.  Joseph  and  were  lying  in  wait  on  the 
Platte,  determined  to  take  revenge  for  the  persecutions 
they  had  suffered  in  Missouri  and  Illinois.  Another 
story  said  that  the  Kaw  Indians,  hitherto  friendly,  had 
banded  together  for  robbery  and  were  only  waiting 
for  the  train  to  appear.  A  still  more  popular  story 

31 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

had  it  that  a  party  of  several  Englishmen  had  hurried 
ahead  on  the  trail  to  excite  all  the  savages  to  waylay 
and  destroy  the  caravans,  thus  to  wreak  the  vengeance 
of  England  upon  the  Yankees  for  the  loss  of  Oregon. 
Much  unrest  arose  over  reports,  hard  to  trace,  to  the 
effect  that  it  was  all  a  mistake  about  Oregon;  that  in 
reality  it  was  a  truly  horrible  country,  unfit  for  human 
occupancy,  and  sure  to  prove  the  grave  of  any  lucky 
enough  to  survive  the  horrors  of  the  trail,  which  never 
yet  had  been  truthfully  reported.  Some  returned  trav 
elers  from  the  West  beyond  the  Rockies,  who  were 
hanging  about  the  landing  at  the  river,  made  it  all 
worse  by  relating  what  purported  to  be  actual  experi 
ences. 

"If  you  ever  get  through  to  Oregon,"  they  said, 
"you'll  be  ten  years  older  than  you  are  now.  Your 
hair  will  be  white,  but  not  by  age." 

The  Great  Dipper  showed  clear  and  close  that  night, 
as  if  one  might  almost  pick  off  by  hand  the  familiar 
stars  of  the  traveler's  constellation.  Overhead  count 
less  brilliant  points  of  lesser  light  enameled  the  night 
mantle,  matching  the  many  camp  fires  of  the  great 
gathering.  The  wind  blew  soft  and  low.  Night  on 
the  prairie  is  always  solemn,  and  to-night  the  tense 
anxiety,  the  strained  anticipation  of  more  than  two 
thousand  souls  invoked  a  brooding  melancholy  which 
it  seemed  even  the  stars  must  feel. 

A  dog,  ominous,  lifted  his  voice  in  a  long,  mournful 
howl  which  made  mothers  put  out  their  hands  to  their 

32 


THE  RENDEZVOUS 

babes.  In  answer  a  coyote  in  the  grass  raised  a  high, 
quavering  cry,  wild  and  desolate,  the  voice  of  the  Far 
West 


CHAPTER   IV 

FEVER  OF  NEW  FORTUNES 

THE  notes  of  a  bugle,  high  and  clear,  sang 
reveille  at  dawn.     Now  came  hurried  activi 
ties  of  those  who  had  delayed.     The  streets 
of  the  two  frontier  settlements  were  packed  with  ox 
teams,  horses,  wagons,  cattle  driven  through.     The 
frontier  stores  were  stripped  of  their  last  supplies. 
One  more  day,  and  then  on  to  Oregon!  f 

Wingate  broke  his  own  camp  early  in  the  morning 
and  moved  out  to  the  open  country  west  of  the  land 
ing,  making  a  last  bivouac  at  what  would  be  the  head 
of  the  train.  He  had  asked  his  four  lieutenants  to 
join  him  there.  Hall,  Price,  and  Kelsey  headed  in 
with  straggling  wagons  to  form  the  nucleuses  of  their 
columns;  but  the  morning  wore  on  and  the  Missouri- 
ans,  now  under  Woodhull,  had  not  yet  broken  park. 
[Wingate  waited  moodily. 

Now  at  the  edge  of  affairs  human  apprehensions 
began  to  assert  themselves,  especially  among  the  wom 
enfolk.  Even  stout  Molly  Wingate  gave  way  to  doubt 
and  fer^s.  Her  husband  caught  her,  apron  to  eyes, 
sitting  on  the  wagon  tongue  at  ten  in  the  morning, 
with  her  pots  and  pans  unpacked. 

34 


FEVER  OF  NEW  FORTUNES 

"What?"  he  exclaimed.  "You're  not  weakening? 
Haven't  you  as  much  courage  as  those  Mormon 
women  on  ahead?  Some  of  them  pushing  carts,  I've 
heard." 

"They've  done  it  for  religion,  Jess.  Oregon  ain't 
no  religion  for  me." 

"Yet  it  has  music  for  a  man's  ears,  Molly/' 

"Hush!  I've  heard  it  all  for  the  last  two  years. 
What  happened  to  the  Donners  two  years  back  ?  And 
four  years  ago  it  was  the  Applegates  left  home  in  old 
Missouri  to  move  to  Oregon.  Who  will  ever  know 
where  their  bones  are  laid?  Look  at  our  land  we  left 
— rich — black  and  rich  as  any  in  the  world.  What 
corn,  what  wheat — why,  everything  grew  well  in 
Illinois!" 

"Yes,  and  cholera  below  us  wiping  out  the  people, 
and  the  trouble  over  slave-holding  working  up  the 
river  more  and  more,  and  the  sun  blazing  in  the  sum 
mer,  while  in  the  wintertime  we  froze!" 

"Well,  as  for  food,  we  never  saw  any  part  of  Ken 
tucky  with  half  so  much  grass.  We  had  no  turkeys 
at  all  there,  and  where  we  left  you  could  kill  one  any 
gobbling  time.  The  pigeons  roosted  not  four  miles 
from  us.  In  the  woods  along  the  river  even  a  woman 
could  kill  coons  and  squirrels,  all  we'd  need — no  need 
for  us  to  eat  rabbits  like  the  Mormons.  Our  chicken 
yard  was  fifty  miles  across.  The  young  ones' d  be 
flying  by  roasting-ear  time — and  in  fall  the  sloughs 
was  black  with  ducks  and  geese.  Enough  and  to  spare 

35 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

we  had;  and  our  land  opening;  and  Molly  teaching 
the  school,  with  twelve  dollars  a  month  cash  for  it, 
and  Ted  learning  his  blacksmith  trade  before  he  was 
eighteen.  How  could  we  ask  more?  What  better  will 
we  do  in  Oregon?'* 

"You  always  throw  the  wet  blanket  on  Oregon, 
Molly." 

"It  is  so  far!" 

"How  do  we  know  it  is  far?  We  know  men  and 
women  have  crossed,  and  we  know  the  land  is  rich. 
Wheat  grows  fifty  bushels  to  the  acre,  the  trees  are 
big  as  the  spires  on  meeting  houses,  the  fish  run  by 
millions  in  the  streams.  Yet  the  winters  have  little 
snow.  A  man  can  live  there  and  not  slave  out  a  life. 

"Besides" — and  the  frontier  now  spoke  in  him — 
"this  country  is  too  old,  too  long  settled.  My  father 
killed  his  elk  and  his  buffalo,  too,  in  Kentucky;  but 
that  was  before  my  day.  I  want  the  buffalo.  I  crave 
to  see  the  Plains,  Molly.  What  real  American  does 
not?" 

Mrs.  Wingate  threw  her  apron  over  her  face. 

"The  Oregon  fever  has  witched  you,  Jesse!"  she 
exclaimed  between  dry  sobs. 

Wingate  was  silent  for  a  time. 

"Corn  ought  to  grow  in  Oregon,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Yes,  but  does  it?" 

"I  never  heard  it  didn't.  The  soil  is  rich,  and  you 
can  file  on  six  hundred  and  forty  acres.  There's  your, 
donation  claim,  four  times  bigger  than  any  land  you 

36 


FEVER  OF  NEW  FORTUNES 

can  file  on  here.  We  sold  out  at  ten  dollars  an  acre — 
more'n  our  land  really  was  worth,  or  ever  is  going  to 
be  worth.  It's  just  the  speculators  says  any  different. 
Let  'em  have  it,  and  us  move  on.  That's  the  way 
money's  made,  and  always  has  been  made,  all  across 
the  United  States." 

"Huh!  You  talk  like  a  land  speculator  your  own 
self!" 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  the  movers  make  a  country,  what 
does?  If  we  don't  settle  Oregon,  how  long'll  we  hold 
it?  The  preachers  went  through  to  Oregon  with 
horses.  Like  as  not  even  the  Applegates  got  their 
wagons  across.  Like  enough  they  got  through.  I 
want  to  see  the  country  before  it  gets  too  late  for  a 
good  chance,  Molly.  First  thing  you  know  buffalo'll 
be  getting  scarce  out  West,  too,  like  deer  was  getting 
scarcer  on  the  Sangamon.  We  ought  to  give  our  chil 
dren  as  good  a  chance  as  we  had  ourselves." 

"As  good  a  chance!  Haven't  they  had  as  good  a 
chance  as  we  ever  had?  Didn't  our  land  more'n  thrib- 
ble,  from  a  dollar  and  a  quarter?  It  may  thribble 
again,  time  they're  old  as  we  are  now." 

"That's  a  long  time  to  wait." 

"It's  a  long  time  to  live  a  life-time,  but  everybody's 
got  to  live  it." 

She  stood,  looking  at  him. 

"Look  at  all  the  good  land  right  in  here !  Here  we 
got  walnut  and  hickory  and  oak — worlds  of  it.  We 
got  sassafras  and  pawpaw  and  hazel  brush.  We  get 

37 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

all  the  hickory  nuts  and  pecans  we  like  any  fall.  The 
wild  plums  is  better'n  any  in  Kentucky;  and  as  for 
grapes,  they're  big  as  your  thumb,  and  thousands, 
on  the  river.  Wait  till  you  see  the  plum  and  grape 
jell  I  could  make  this  fall !" 

"Women — always  thinking  of  jell!" 

"But  we  got  every  herb  here  we  need — boneset 
and  sassafras  and  Injun  physic  and  bark  for  the  fever. 
There  ain't  nothing  you  can  name  we  ain't  got  right 
here,  or  on  the  Sangamon,  yet  you  talk  of  taking  care 
of  our  children.  Huh!  We've  moved  five  times 
since  we  was  married.  Now  just  as  we  got  into  a 
good  country,  where  a  woman  could  dry  corn  and 
put  up  jell,  and  where  a  man  could  raise  some  hogs, 
why,  you  wanted  to  move  again — plumb  out  to  Oregon ! 
I  tell  you,  Jesse  Wingate,  hogs  is  a  blame  sight  better 
to  tie  to  than  buffalo !  You  talk  like  you  had  to  settle 
Oregon!" 

"Well,  haven't  I  got  to?  Somehow  it  seems  a  man 
ain't  making  up  his  own  mind  when  he  moves  West 
Pap  moved  twice  in  Kentucky,  once  in  Tennessee, 
and  then  over  to  Missouri,  after  you  and  me  was  mar 
ried  and  moved  up  into  Indiana,  before  we  moved  over 
into  Illinois.  He  said  to  me — and  I  know  it  for  the 
truth — he  couldn't  hardly  tell  who  it  was  or  what  it 
was  hitched  up  the  team.  But  first  thing  he  knew, 
there  the  old  wagon  stood,  front  of  the  house,  cover 
all  on,  plow  hanging  on  behind,  tar  bucket  under  the 

38 


FEVER  OF  NEW  FORTUNES 

wagon,  and  dog  and  all.  All  he  had  to  do,  pap  said, 
was  just  to  climb  up  on  the  front  seat  and  speak  to 
the  team.  My  maw,  she  climb  up  on  the  seat  with 
him.  Then  they  moved — on  West.  You  know,  Molly. 
My  maw,  she  climb  up  on  the  front  seat " 

His  wife  suddenly  turned  to  him,  the  tears  still  in 
her  eyes. 

"Yes,  and  Jesse  Wingate,  and  you  know  it,  your 
wife's  as  good  a  woman  as  your  maw!  When  the 
wagon  was  a-standing,  cover  on,  and  you  on  the  front 
seat,  I  climb  up  by  you,  Jess,  same  as  I  always  have 
and  always  will.  Haven't  I  always?  You  know  that. 
But  it's  harder  on  women,  moving  is.  They  care  more 
for  a  house  that's  rain  tight  in  a  storm." 

"I  know  you  did,  Molly,"  said  her  husband  soberly. 

"I  suppose  I  can  pack  my  jells  in  a  box  and  put  in 
the  wagon,  anyways."  She  was  drying  her  eyes. 

"Why,  yes,  I  reckon  so.  And  then  a  few  sacks  of 
dried  corn  will  go  mighty  well  on  the  road." 

"One  thing" — she  turned  on  him  in  wifely  fury — 
"you  shan't  keep  me  from  taking  my  bureau  and  my 
six  chairs  all  the  way  across!  No,  nor  my  garden 
seeds,  all  I  saved.  No,  nor  yet  my  rose  roots  that  I'm 
taking  along.  We  got  to  have  a  home,  Jess — we  got 
to  have  a  home!  There's  Jed  and  Molly  coming  on," 

"Where's  Molly  now?"  suddenly  asked  her  husband. 
She'd  ought  to  be  helping  you  right  now." 

"Oh,  back  at  the  camp,  I  s'pose — her  and  Jed,  too. 
39 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

I  told  her  to  pick  a  mess  of  dandelion  greens  and 
bring  over.  Larking  around  with  them  young  fellows, 
like  enough.  Huh!  She'll  have  less  time.  If  Jed 
has  to  ride  herd,  Molly's  got  to  take  care  of  that  team 
of  big  mules,  and  drive  'em  all  day  in  the  light  wagon 
too.  I  reckon  if  she  does  that,  and  teaches  night 
school  right  along,  she  won't  be  feeling  so  gay." 

"They  tell  me  folks  has  got  married  going  across/' 
she  added,  "not  to  mention  buried.  One  book  we  had 
said,  up  on  the  Platte,  two  years  back,  there  was  a 
wedding  and  a  birth  and  a  burying  in  one  train,  all 
inside  of  one  hour,  and  all  inside  of  one  mile.  That's 
Oregon !" 

"Well,  I  reckon  it's  life,  ain't  it?"  rejoined  her  hus 
band.  "One  thing,  I'm  not  keen  to  have  Molly  pay  too 
much  notice  to  that  young  fellow  Banion — him  they 
said  was  a  leader  of  the  Liberty  wagons.  Huh,  he 
ain't  leader  now!" 

"You  like  Sam  Woodhull  better  for  Molly,  Jess?" 

"Some  ways.  He  falls  in  along  with  my  ideas.  He 
ain't  so  apt  to  make  trouble  on  the  road.  He  sided  in 
with  me  right  along  at  the  last  meeting." 

"He  done  that  ?  Well,  his  father  was  a  sheriff  once, 
and  his  uncle,  Judge  Henry  D.  Showalter,  he  got  into 
Congress.  Politics !  But  some  folks  said  the  Banions 
was  the  best  family.  Kentucky,  they  was.  Well, 
comes  to  siding  in,  Jess,  I  reckon  it's  Molly  herself'll 
count  more  in  that  than  either  o'  them  or  either  o'  us. 

40 


FEVER  OF  NEW  FORTUNES 

She's  eighteen  past.    Another  year  and  she'll  be  an  old 

maid.     If  there's  a  wedding  going  across " 

"There  won't  be,"  said  her  husband  shortly.  "If 
there  is  it  won't  be  her  and  no  William  Banion,  I'm 
saying  that." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    BLACK    SPANIARD 

MEANTIME  the  younger  persons  referred 
to  in  the  frank  discussion  of  Wingate  and 
his  wife  were  ocupying  themselves  in  their 
own  fashion  their  last  day  in  camp.    Molly,  her  basket 
full  of  dandelion  leaves,  was  reluctant  to  leave  the 
shade  of  the  grove  by  the  stream,  and  Jed  had  busi 
ness  with  the  team  of  great  mules  that  Molly  was  to 
drive  on  the  trail. 

As  for  the  Liberty  train,  its  oval  remained  un 
broken,  the  men  and  women  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the 
wagons.  Their  outfitting  had  been  done  so  carefully 
that  little  now  remained  for  attention  on  the  last  day, 
but  the  substantial  men  of  the  contingent  seemed  far 
from  eager  to  be  on  their  way.  Groups  here  and  there 
spoke  in  monosyllables,  sullenly.  They  wanted  to  join 
the  great  train,  had  voted  to  do  so;  but  the  cavalier 
deposing  of  their  chosen  man  Banion — who  before 
them  all  at  the  meeting  had  shown  himself  fit  to  lead — 
and  the  cool  appointment  of  Woodhull  in  his  place  had 
on  reflection  seemed  to  them  quite  too  high-handed 
a  proposition.  They  said  so  now. 

"iWhere's  Woodhull  now?"  demanded  the  bearded 
42 


THE  BLACK  SPANIARD 

man  who  had  championed  Banion.  "I  see  Will  out 
rounding  up  his  cows,  but  Sam  Woodhull  ain't  turned 
a  hand  to  hooking  up  to  pull  in  west  o'  town  with  the 
others." 

"That's  easy,"  smiled  another.  "Sam  Woodhull 
is  where  he's  always  going  to  be — hanging  around 
the  Wingate  girl.  He's  over  at  their  camp  now." 

"Well,  I  dunno's  I  blame  him  so  much  for  that, 
neither.  And  he  kin  stay  there  fer  all  o'  me.  Fer  one, 
I  won't  foller  no  Woodhull,  least  o'  all  Sam  Woodhull, 
soldier  or  no  soldier.  I'll  pull  out  when  I  git  ready, 
and  to-morrow  mornin'  is  soon  enough  fer  me.  We 
kin  jine  on  then,  if  so's  we  like." 

Someone  turned  on  his  elbow,  nodded  over  shoulder. 
They  heard  hoof  beats.  Banion  came  up,  fresh  from 
his  new  work  on  the  herd.  He  asked  for  Woodhull, 
and  learning  his  whereabouts  trotted  across  the  inter 
vening  glade. 

"That's  shore  a  hoss  he  rides,"  said  one  man. 

"An'  a  shore  man  a-ridin'  of  him,"  nodded  another. 
"He  may  ride  front  o'  the  train  an'  not  back  o'  hit, 
even  yet." 

Molly  Wingate  sat  on  the  grass  in  the  little  grove, 
curling  a  chain  of  dandelion  stems.  Near  by  Sam 
Woodhull,  in  his  best,  lay  on  the  sward  regarding  her 
avidly,  a  dull  fire  in  his  dark  eyes.  He  was  so  en 
amored  of  the  girl  as  to  be  almost  unfit  for  aught  else. 
For  weeks  he  had  kept  close  to  her.  Not  that  Molly 
seemed  over-much  to  notice  or  encourage  him.  Only, 

43 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

woman  fashion,  she  ill  liked  to  send  away  any  attentive 
male.  Just  now  she  was  uneasy.  She  guessed  that 
if  it  were  not  for  the  presence  of  her  brother  Jed  near 
by  this  man  would  declare  himself  unmistakably. 

If  the  safety  of  numbers  made  her  main  concern, 
perhaps  that  was  what  made  Molly  Wingate's  eye 
light  up  when  she  heard  the  hoofs  of  Will  Banion's 
horse  splashing  in  the  little  stream.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet,  waving  a  hand  gayly. 

"Oh,  so  there  you  are!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was 
wondering  if  you'd  be  over  before  Jed  and  I  left  for 
the  prairie.  Father  and  mother  have  moved  on  out 
west  of  town.  We're  all  ready  for  the  jump-off.  Are 
you?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow  by  sun,"  said  Banion,  swinging  out 
of  saddle  and  forgetting  any  errand  he  might  have 
had.  "Then  it's  on  to  Oregon!" 

He  nodded  to  Woodhull,  who  little  more  than 
noticed  him.  Molly  advanced  to  where  Banion's  horse 
stood,  nodding  and  pawing  restively  as  was  his  wont. 
She  stroked  his  nose,  patted  his  sweat-soaked  neck. 

"What  a  pretty  horse  you  have,  major,"  she  said. 
"What's  his  name?" 

"I  call  him  Pronto,"  smiled  Banion.  "That  means 
sudden." 

"He  fits  the  name.     May  I  ride  him?" 

"What?    You  ride  him?" 

"Yes,  surely.     I'd  love  to.     I  can  ride  anything. 
44 


"I'LL   RIDE   HIM    NOW,   TO    SHOW   YOU." 


[page  45] 


THE  BLACK  SPANIARD 

That  funny  saddle  would  do — see  how  big  and  high  the 
horn  is,  good  as  the  fork  of  a  lady's  saddle." 

"Yes,  but  the  stirrup!" 

"I'd  put  my  foot  in  between  the  flaps  above  the 
stirrup.  Help  me  up,  sir?" 

"I'd  rather  not." 

Molly  pouted. 

"Stingy!" 

"But  no  woman  ever  rode  that  horse — not  many 
men  but  me.  I  don't  know  what  he'd  do." 

"Only  one  way  to  find  out." 

Jed,  approaching,  joined  the  conversation. 

"I  rid  him,"  said  he.  "He's  a  goer  all  right,  but 
he  ain't  mean." 

"I  don't  know  whether  he  would  be  bad  or  not  with 
a  lady,"  Banion  still  argued.  "These  Spanish  horses 
are  always  wild.  They  never  do  get  over  it.  You've 
got  to  be  a  rider." 

"You  think  I'm  not  a  rider?  I'll  ride  him  now  to 
show  you!  I'm  not  afraid  of  horses." 

"That's  right,"  broke  in  Sam  Woodhull.  "But, 
Miss  Molly,  I  wouldn't  tackle  that  horse  if  I  was  you. 
Take  mine." 

"But  I  will!  I've  not  been  horseback  for  a  month. 
.We've  all  got  to  ride  or  drive  or  walk  a  thousand 
miles.  I  can  ride  him,  man  saddle  and  all.  Help  me 
up,  sir?" 

Banion  walked  to  the  horse,  which  flung  a  head 
against  him,  rubbing  a  soft  muzzle  up  and  down. 

45 


5 
THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"He  seems  gentle/'  said  he.  "Fve  pretty  well 
topped  him  off  this  morning.  If  you're  sure  " 

"Help  me  up,  one  of  you?" 

It  was  Woodhull  who  sprang  to  her,  caught  her  up 
under  the  arms  and  lifted  her  fully  gracious  weight 
to  the  saddle.  Her  left  foot  by  fortune  found  the 
cleft  in  the  stirrup  fender,  her  right  leg  swung  around 
the  tall  horn,  hastily  concealed  by  a  clutch  at  her  skirt 
even  as  she  grasped  the  heavy  knotted  reins.  It  was 
then  too  late.  She  must  ride. 

Banion  caught  at  a  cheek  strap  as  he  saw  Wood- 
hull's  act,  and  the  horse  was  the  safer  for  an  instant. 
But  in  terror  or  anger  at  his  unusual  burden,  with 
flapping  skirt  and  no  grip  on  his  flanks,  the  animal 
reared  and  broke  away  from  them  all.  An  instant  and 
he  was  plunging  across  the  stream  for  the  open  glade, 
his  head  low. 

He  did  not  yet  essay  the  short,  stiff-legged  action 
of  the  typical  bucker,  but  made  long,  reaching,  low- 
headed  plunges,  seeking  his  own  freedom  in  that  way, 
perhaps  half  in  some  equine  wonder  of  his  own.  None 
the  less  the  wrenching  of  the  girl's  back,  the  leverage 
on  her  flexed  knee,  unprotected,  were  unmistakable. 

The  horse  reared  again  and  yet  again,  high,  strik 
ing  out  as  she  checked  him.  He  was  getting  in  a 
fury  now,  for  his  rider  still  was  in  place.  Then  with 
one  savage  sidewise  shake  of  his  head  after  another 
he  plunged  this  way  and  that,  rail- fencing  it  for  the 
open  prairie.  It  looked  like  a  bolt,  which  with  a 

46 


THE  BLACK  SPANIARD 

horse  of  his  spirit  and  stamina  meant  but  one  thing,  no 
matter  how  long  delayed. 

It  all  happened  in  a  flash.  Banion  caught  at  the  rein 
too  late,  ran  after — too  slow,  of  course.  The  girl  was 
silent,  shaken,  but  still  riding.  No  footman  could 
aid  her  now. 

With  a  leap,  Banion  was  in  the  saddle  of  Wood- 
hull's  horse,  which  had  been  left  at  hand,  its  bridle 
down.  He  drove  in  the  spurs  and  headed  across  the 
flat  at  the  top  speed  of  the  fast  and  racy  chestnut — no 
match,  perhaps,  for  the  black  Spaniard,  were  the  latter 
once  extended,  but  favored  now  by  the  angle  of  the  two. 

Molly  had  not  uttered  a  word  or  cry,  either  to  her 
mount  or  in  appeal  for  aid.  In  sooth  she  was  too 
frightened  to  do  so.  But  she  heard  the  rush  of  hoofs 
and  the  high  call  of  Banion's  voice  back  of  her : 

"Ho,  Pronto!  Pronto!     Vien'  aqui!" 

Something  of  a  marvel  it  was,  and  showing  com 
panionship  of  man  and  horse  on  the  trail;  but  suddenly 
the  mad  black  ceased  his  plunging.  Turning,  he 
trotted  whinnying  as  though  for  aid,  obedient  to  his 
master's  command,  "Come  here!"  An  instant  and 
Banion  had  the  cheek  strap.  Another  and  he  was  off, 
with  Molly  Wingate,  in  a  white  dead  faint,  in  his 
arms. 

By  now  others  had  seen  the  affair  from  their  places 
in  the  wagon  park.  Men  and  women  came  hurrying. 
Banion  laid  the  girl  down,  sought  to  raise  her  head, 
drove  back  the  two  horses,  ran  with  his  hat  to  the 

47 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

stream  for  water.  By  that  time  Woodhull  had  joined 
him,  in  advance  of  the  people  from  the  park. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  damned  fool,  you,  by 
riding  my  horse  off  without  my  consent!"  he  broke 
out.  "If  she  ain't  dead — that  damned  wild  horse — 
you  had  the  gall " 

Will  Banion's  self-restraint  at  last  was  gone.  He 
made  one  answer,  voicing  all  his  acquaintance  with 
Sam  Woodhull,  all  his  opinion  of  him,  all  his  future 
attitude  in  regard  to  him. 

He  dropped  his  hat  to  the  ground,  caught  off  one 
wet  glove,  and  with  a  long  back-handed  sweep  struck 
the  cuff  of  it  full  and  hard  across  Sam  Woodhull's 
Sace. 


CHAPTER   VI 

ISSUE     JOINED 

THERE  were  dragoon  revolvers  in  the  holsters 
at  Woodhull's  saddle.  He  made  a  rush  for 
a  weapon — indeed,  the  crack  of  the  blow  had 
been  so  sharp  that  the  nearest  men  thought  a  shot  had 
been  fired — but  swift  as  was  his  leap,  it  was  not  swift 
enough.  The  long,  lean  hand  of  the  bearded  Mis- 
sourian  gripped  his  wrist  even  as  he  caught  at  a  pistol 
grip.  He  turned  a  livid  face  to  gaze  into  a  cold  and 
small  blue  eye. 

"No,  ye  don't,  Sam!"  said  the  other,  who  was  first 
of  those  who  came  up  running. 

Even  as  a  lank  woman  stooped  to  raise  the  head 
of  Molly  Wingate  the  sinewy  arm  back  of  the  hand 
whirled  Woodhull  around  so  that  he  faced  Banion, 
who  had  not  made  a  move. 

"Will  ain't  got  no  weepon,  an'  ye  know  it,"  went  on 
the  same  cool  voice.  "What  ye  mean — a  murder,  be 
sides  that?" 

He  nodded  toward  the  girl.  By  now  the  crowd 
surged  between  the  two  men,  voices  rose. 

"He  struck  me!"  broke  out  Woodhull.  "Let  me 
go !  He  struck  me !" 

49 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"I  know  he  did,"  said  the  intervenes  "I  heard  it. 
I  don't  know  why.  But  whether  it  was  over  the  girl 
or  not,  we  ain't  goin'  to  see  this  other  feller  shot  down 
till  we  know  more  about  hit.  Ye  can  meet " 

"Of  course,  any  time." 

Banion  was  drawing  on  his  glove.  The  woman  had 
lifted  Molly,  straightened  her  clothing. 

"All  blood!"  said  one.  'That  saddle  horn!  What 
made  her  ride  that  critter?" 

The  Spanish  horse  stood  facing  them  now,  ears 
forward,  his  eyes  showing  through  his  forelock  not  so 
much  in  anger  as  in  curiosity.  The  men  hustled  the 
two  antagonists  apart. 

"Listen,  Sam,"  went  on  the  tall  Missourian,  still 
with  his  grip  on  Woodhull's  wrist  "We'll  see  ye  both 
fair.  Ye've  got  to  fight  now,  in  course — that's  the  law, 
an'  I  ain't  learned  it  in  the  fur  trade  o'  the  Rockies  fer 
nothin',  ner  have  you  people  here  in  the  settlements. 
But  I'll  tell  ye  one  thing,  Sam  Woodhull,  ef  ye  make 
one  move  afore  we-uns  tell  ye  how  an'  when  to  make 
hit,  I'll  drop  ye,  shore's  my  name's  Bill  Jackson.  Ye 
got  to  wait,  both  on  ye.  We're  startin'  out,  an*  we 
kain't  start  out  like  a  mob.  Take  yer  time." 

"Any  time,  any  way,"  said  Banion  simply.  "No 
man  can  abuse  me." 

"How'd  you  gentlemen  prefer  fer  to  fight?"  in 
quired  the  man  who  had  described  himself  as  Bill 
Jackson,  one  of  the  fur  brigaders  of  the  Rocky 

50 


ISSUE  JOINED 

Mountain  Company;  a  man  with  a  reputation  of  his 
own  in  Plains  and  mountain  adventures  of  hunting, 
trading  and  scouting.  "Hit's  yore  ch'ice  o'  weapons, 
I  reckon,  Will.  I  reckon  he  challenged  you-all." 

"I  don't  care.  He'd  have  no  chance  on  an  even 
break  with  me,  with  any  sort  of  weapon,  and  he  knows 
that." 

Jackson  cast  free  his  man  and  ruminated  over  a 
chew  of  plug. 

"Hit's  over  a  gal,"  said  he  at  length,  judicially. 
"Hit  ain't  usual;  but  seein'  as  a  gal  don't  pick  atween 
men  because  one's  a  quicker  shot  than  another,  but 
because  he's  maybe  stronger,  or  something  like  that, 
why,  how'd  knuckle  and  skull  suit  you  two  roosters, 
best  man  win  and  us  to  see  hit  fair?  Hit's  one  of  ye 
fer  the  gal,  like  enough.  But  not  right  now.  Wait  till 
we're  on  the  trail  and  clean  o*  the  law.  I  heern  there's 
a  sheriff  round  yere  some'rs." 

"I'll  fight  him  any  way  he  likes,  or  any  way  you 
say,"  said  Banion.  "It's  not  my  seeking.  I  only 
slapped  him  because  he  abused  me  for  doing  what  he 
ought  to  have  done.  Yes,  I  rode  his  horse.  If  I 
hadn't  that  girl  would  have  been  killed.  It's  not  his 
fault  she  wasn't.  I  didn't  want  her  to  ride  that  horse." 

"I  don't  reckon  hit's  so  much  a  matter  about  a  hoss 
as  hit  is  about  a  gal,"  remarked  Bill  Jackson  sagely. 
"Ye'll  hatter  fight.  Well  then,  seein'  as  hit's  about  a 
gal,  knuckle  an'  skull,  is  that  right?" 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

He  cast  a  glance  around  this  group  of  other  fighting 
men  of  a  border  day.  They  nodded  gravely,  but  with 
glittering  eyes. 

"Well  then,  gentlemen" — and  now  he  stood  free  of 
Woodhull — "ye  both  give  word  ye' 11  make  no  break  till 
we  tell  ye?  I'll  say,  two-three  days  out?" 

"Suits  me/'  said  Woodhull  savagely.  "I'll  break  his 
neck  for  him." 

"Any  time  that  suits  the  gentleman  to  break  my 
neck  will  please  me,"  said  Will  Banion  indifferently. 
"Say  when,  friends.  Just  now  I've  got  to  look  after 
my  cows.  It  seems  to  me  our  wagon  master  might 
very  well  look  after  his  wagons." 

"That  sounds !"  commented  Jackson.  "That  sounds ! 
Sam,  git  on  about  yer  business,  er  ye  kain't  travel  in 
the  Liberty  train  nohow !  An'  don't  ye  make  no  break, 
in  the  dark  especial,  fer  we  kin  track  ye  anywhere's. 
Ye'll  fight  fair  fer  once— an'  ye'll  fight!" 

By  now  the  group  massed  about  these  scenes  had 
begun  to  relax,  to  spread.  Women  had  Molly  in  hand 
as  her  eyes  opened.  Jed  came  up  at  a  run  with  the  mule 
team  and  the  light  wagon  from  the  grove,  and  they 
got  the  girl  into  the  seat  with  him,  neither  of  them 
fully  cognizant  of  what  had  gone  on  in  the  group  of 
tight-mouthed  men  who  now  broke  apart  and  sauntered 
silently  back,  each  to  his  own  wagon. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    JUMP-OFF 

WITH  the  first  thin  line  of  pink  the  coyotes 
hanging  on  the  flanks  of  the  great  encamp 
ment  raised  their  immemorial  salutation  to 
the  dawn.     Their  clamorings  were  stilled  by  a  new 
and  sterner  voice — the  notes  of  the  bugle  summoning 
sleepers  of  the  last  night  to  the  duties  of  the  first  day. 
Down  the  line  from  watch  to  watch  passed  the  Plains 
command,  "Catch  up!     Catch  up!"     It  was  morning 
of  the  jump-off. 

Little  fires  began  at  the  wagon  messes  or  family 
bivouacs.  Men,  boys,  barefooted  girls  went  out  into 
the  dew-wet  grass  to  round  up  the  transport  stock.  A 
vast  confusion,  a  medley  of  unskilled  endeavor  marked 
the  hour.  But  after  an  hour's  wait,  adjusted  to  the 
situation,  the  next  order  passed  down  the  line : 

"Roll  out!     Roll  out!" 

And  now  the  march  to  Oregon  was  at  last  begun! 
The  first  dust  cut  by  an  ox  hoof  was  set  in  motion 
by  the  whip  crack  of  a  barefooted  boy  in  jeans  who  had 
no  dream  that  he  one  day  would  rank  high  in  the 
councils  of  his  state,  at  the  edge  of  an  ocean  which 
no  prairie  boy  ever  had  envisioned. 

53 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

The  compass  finger  of  the  trail,  leading  out  from 
the  timber  groves,  pointed  into  a  sea  of  green  along  the 
valley  of  the  Kaw.  The  grass,  not  yet  tall  enough 
fully  to  ripple  as  it  would  a  half  month  later,  stood 
waving  over  the  black-burned  ground  which  the  semi- 
civilized  Indians  had  left  the  fall  before.  Flowers 
dotted  it,  sometimes  white  like  bits  of  old  ivory  on  the 
vast  rug  of  spindrift — the  pink  verbena,  the  wild 
indigo,  the  larkspur  and  the  wild  geranium — all  woven 
into  a  wondrous  spangled  carpet.  At  times  also  ap 
peared  the  shy  buds  of  the  sweet  wild  rose,  loveliest 
flower  of  the  prairie.  Tall  rosinweeds  began  to  thrust 
up  rankly,  banks  of  sunflowers  prepared  to  fling  their 
yellow  banners  miles  wide.  The  opulent,  inviting  land 
lay  in  a  ceaseless  succession  of  easy  undulations, 
stretching  away  inimitably  to  far  horizons,  "in  such 
exchanging  pictures  of  grace  and  charm  as  raised  the 
admiration  of  even  these  simple  folk  to  a  pitch  border 
ing  upon  exaltation." 

Here  lay  the  West,  barbaric,  abounding,  beautiful. 
Surely  it  could  mean  no  harm  to  any  man. 

The  men  lacked  experience  in  column  travel,  the 
animals  were  unruly.  The  train  formation — clumsily 
trying  to  conform  to  the  orders  of  Wingate  to  travel 
in  four  parallel  columns — soon  lost  order.  At  times 
the  wagons  halted  to  re-form.  The  leaders  galloped 
back  and  forth,  exhorting,  adjuring  and  restoring  little 
by  little  a  certain  system.  But  they  dealt  with  in 
dependent  men.  On  ahead  the  landscape  seemed  so 

54 


THE  JUMP-OFF 

wholly  free  of  danger  that  to  most  of  these  the  road 
to  the  Far  West  offered  no  more  than  a  pleasure  jaunt. 
Wingate  and  his  immediate  aids  were  well  worn  when 
at  mid  afternoon  they  halted,  fifteen  miles  out  from 
Westport. 

"What  in  hell  you  pulling  up  so  soon  for?"  demanded 
Sam  Woodhull  surlily,  riding  up  from  his  own  column, 
far  at  the  rear,  and  accenting  the  train  leader.  "We 
can  go  five  miles  further,  anyhow,  and  maybe  ten. 
We'll  never  get  across  in  this  way." 

"This  is  the  very  way  we  will  get  across,"  rejoined 
Wingate.  "While  I'm  captain  I'll  say  when  to  start 
and  stop.  But  I've  been  counting  on  you,  Woodhull, 
to  throw  in  with  me  and  help  me  get  things  shook 
down." 

"Well,  hit  looks  to  me  ye're  purty  brash  as  usual/' 
commented  another  voice.  Bill  Jackson  came  and  stood 
at  the  captain's  side.  He  had  not  been  far  from  Wood- 
hull  all  day  long.  "Ye' re  a  nacherl  damned  fool,  Sara 
Woodhull,"  said  he.  "Who  'lected  ye  fer  train  captain,, 
an'  when  was  it  did?  If  ye  don't  like  the  way  this 
train's  run  go  on  ahead  an'  make  a  train  o'  yer  own^ 
ef  that's  way  ye  feel.  Pull  on  out  to-night.  What  ye 
say,  Cap?" 

"I  can't  really  keep  any  man  from  going  back  015 
going  ahead,"  replied  Wingate.  "But  I've  counted  on 
Woodhull  to  hold  those  Liberty  wagons  together.  Anjr 
plainsman  knows  that  a  little  party  takes  big  risks." 

"Since  when  did  you  come  a  plainsman?"  scoffed 
55 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

the  malcontent,  for  once  forgetting  his  policy  of  favor- 
currying  with  Wingate  in  his  own  surly  discontent. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  speak  to  Molly  all  day. 

"Well,  if  he  ain't  a  plainsman  yit  he  will  be,  and 
I'm  one  right  now,  Sam  Woodhull."  Jackson  stood 
squarely  in  front  of  his  superior.  "I  say  he's  talkin' 
sense  to  a  man  that  ain't  got  no  sense.  I  was  with 
Doniphan  too.  We  found  ways,  huh  ?" 

His  straight  gaze  outfronted  the  other,  who  turned 
and  rode  back.  But  that  very  night  eight  men,  covertly 
instigated  or  encouraged  by  Woodhull,  their  leader, 
came  to  the  headquarters  fire  with  a  joint  complaint. 
They  demanded  places  at  the  head  of  the  column,  else 
would  mutiny  and  go  on  ahead  together.  They  said 
good  mule  teams  ought  not  to  take  the  dust  of  ox 
wagons. 

"What  do  you  say,  men?"  asked  the  train  captain 
of  his  aids  helplessly.  "I'm  in  favor  of  letting  them 
go  front." 

The  others  nodded  silently,  looking  at  one  another 
significantly.  Already  cliques  and  factions  were 
beginning. 

Woodhull,  however,  had  too  much  at  stake  to  risk 
any  open  friction  with  the  captain  of  the  train.  His 
own  seat  at  the  officers'  fire  was  dear  to  him,  for  it 
brought  him  close  to  the  Wingate  wagons,  and  in( 
sight — if  nothing  else — of  Molly  Wingate.  That  young 
lady  did  not  speak  to  him  all  day,  but  drew  close  the 

56 


THE  JUMP-OFF 

tilt  of  her  own  wagon  early  after  the  evening  meal 
and  denied  herself  to  all. 

As  for  Banion,  he  was  miles  back,  in  camp  with  his 
own  wagons,  which  Woodhull  had  abandoned,  and 
on  duty  that  night  with  the  cattle  guard — a  herdsman 
and  not  a  leader  of  men  now.  He  himself  was  moody 
enough  when  he  tied  his  cape  behind  his  saddle  and 
rode  his  black  horse  out  into  the  shadows.  He  had 
no  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  the  old  mountain  man, 
Jackson,  wrapped  in  his  blanket,  that  night  instituted 
a  solitary  watch  all  his  own. 

The  hundreds  of  camp  fires  of  the  scattered  train, 
stretched  out  over  five  miles  of  grove  and  glade  at 
the  end  of  the  first  undisciplined  day,  lowered,  glowed 
and  faded.  They  were  one  day  out  to  Oregon,  and 
weary  withal.  Soon  the  individual  encampments  were 
silent  save  for  the  champ  or  cough  of  tethered  animals, 
or  the  whining  howl  of  coyotes,  prowling  in.  At  the 
Missouri  encampment,  last  of  the  train,  and  that  head 
ing  the  great  cattle  drove,  the  hardy  frontier  settlers, 
as  was  their  wont,  soon  followed  the  sun  to  rest. 

The  night  wore  on,  incredibly  slow  to  the  novice 
watch  for  the  first  time  now  drafted  under  the  prairie 
law.  The  sky  was  faint  pink  and  the  shadows  lighter 
when  suddenly  the  dark  was  streaked  by  a  flash  of  fire 
and  the  silence  broken  by  the  crack  of  a  border  rifle. 
Then  again  and  again  came  the  heavier  bark  of  a  dra 
goon  revolver,  of  the  sort  just  then  becoming  known 
along  the  Western  marches, 

57 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

The  camp  went  into  confusion.  Will  Banion,  just 
riding  in  to  take  his  own  belated  turn  in  his  blankets, 
almost  ran  over  the  tall  form  of  Bill  Jackson,  rifle  in 
hand. 

"What  was  it,  man?"  demanded  Banion.  "You 
shooting  at  a  mule?" 

"No,  a  man,"  whispered  the  other.  "He  ran  this 
way.  Reckon  I  must  have  missed.  It's  hard  to  draw 
down  inter  a  hindsight  in  the  dark,  an'  I  jest  chanced 
hit  with  the  pistol.  He  was  runnin'  hard." 

"Who   was   he — some  thief?" 

"Like  enough.  He  was  crawlin'  up  towards  yore 
yragon.  I  halted  him  an'  he  run." 

"You  don't  know  who  he  was?" 

"No.  I'll  see  his  tracks,  come  day.  Go  on  to 
bed.  I'll  set  out  a  whiles,  boy." 

When  dawn  came,  before  he  had  broken  his  long 
vigil,  Jackson  was  bending  over  footmarks  in  the 
moister  portions  of  the  soil. 

"Tall  man,  young  an'  tracked  clean,"  he  muttered 
to  himself.  "Fancy  boots,  with  rather  little  heels. 
Shame  I  done  missed  him!" 

But  he  said  nothing  to  Banion  or  anyone  else.  It 
was  the  twentieth  time  Bill  Jackson,  one  of  Sublette's 
men  and  a  nephew  of  one  of  his  partners,  had  crossed 
the  Plains,  and  the  lone  hand  pleased  him  best.  He 
instituted  his  own  government  for  the  most  part,  and 
had  thrown  in  with  this  train  because  that  best  suited 
his  book,  since  the  old  pack  trains  of  the  fur  trade 

58 


THE  JUMP-OFF 

were  now  no  more.  For  himself,  he  planned  settle 
ment  in  Eastern  .Oregon,  a  country  he  once  had 
glimpsed  in  long-gone  beaver  days,  a  dozen  years  ago. 
The  Eastern  settlements  had  held  him  long  enough, 
the  Army  life  had  been  too  dull,  even  with  Doniphan. 
"I  must  be  gittin'  old/*  he  muttered  to  himself  as 
he  turned  to  a  breakfast  fire.  ''Missed — at  seventy 
yard!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MAN     AGAINST     MAN 

THERE  were  more  than  two  thousand  souls 
in  the   great   caravan   which   reached   over 
miles  of  springy  turf  and  fat  creek  lands. 
There  were  more  than  a  thousand  children,  more  than 
a  hundred  babes  in  arm,  more  than  fifty  marriageable 
maids  pursued  by  avid  swains.    There  were  bold  souls 
and  weak,  strong  teams  and  weak,  heavy  loads  and 
light  loads,  neighbor  groups  and  coteries  of  kindred 
blood  or  kindred  spirits. 

The  rank  and  file  had  reasons  enough  for  shifting. 
There  were  a  score  of  Helens  driving  wagons — reasons 
in  plenty  for  the  futility  of  all  attempts  to  enforce  an 
arbitrary  rule  of  march.  Human  equations,  human 
elements  would  shake  themselves  down  into  place, 
willy-nilly.  The  great  caravan  therefore  was  scantily 
less  than  a  rabble  for  the  first  three  or  four  days  out. 
The  four  columns  were  abandoned  the  first  half  day. 
The  loosely  knit  organization  rolled  on  in  a  broken- 
crested  wave,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  miles  a  day,  the  horse- 
and-mule  men  now  at  the  front.  Far  to  the  rear, 
heading  only  the  cow  column,  came  the  lank  men  of 
Liberty,  trudging  alongside  their  swaying  ox  teams, 

60 


MAN  AGAINST  MAN 

with  many  a  monotonous  "Gee-whoa-haw !  Git  along 
thar,  ye  Buck  an'  Star!"  So  soon  they  passed  the 
fork  where  the  road  to  Oregon  left  the  trail  to  Santa 
Fe;  topped  the  divide  that  held  them  back  from  the 
greater  valley  of  the  Kaw. 

Noon  of  the  fifth  day  brought  them  to  the  swollen 
flood  of  the  latter  stream,  at  the  crossing  known  as 
Papin's  Ferry.  Here  the  semicivilized  Indians  and 
traders  had  a  single  rude  ferryboat,  a  scow  operated 
in  part  by  setting  poles,  in  part  by  the  power  of  the 
stream  against  a  cable.  The  noncommittal  Indians 
would  give  no  counsel  as  to  fording.  They  had  ferry 
hire  to  gain.  Word  passed  that  there  were  other  fords 
a  few  miles  higher  up.  A  general  indecision  existed, 
and  now  the  train  began  to  pile  up  on  the  south  bank 
of  the  river. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  scout,  Jackson,  came  rid 
ing  back  to  the  herd  where  Banion  was  at  work,  jerk 
ing  up  his  horse  in  no  pleased  frame  of  mind. 

"Will,"  said  he,  "leave  the  boys  ride  now  an'  come 
on  up  ahead.  We  need  ye." 

"What's  up?"  demanded  Banion.  "Anything 
worse?" 

"Yes.  The  old  fool's  had  a  row  over  the  ferryboat. 
Hit'd  take  two  weeks  to  git  us  all  over  that  way,  any 
how.  He's  declared  fer  fordin'  the  hull  outfit,  lock, 
stock  an'  barrel.  To  save  a  few  dollars,  he's  a  goin' 
to  lose  a  lot  o'  loads  an'  drownd  a  lot  o'  womern  an' 
babies — that's  what  he's  goin'  to  do.  Some  o'  us 

61 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

called  a  halt  an'  stood  out  fer  a  council.  We  want 
you  to  come  on  up. 

"Woodhull's  there,"  he  added.  "He  sides  with  the 
{old  man,  o'  course.  He  rid  on  the  same  seat  with  that 
gal  all  day  till  now.  Lord  knows  what  he  done  or  said. 
Ain't  hit  nigh  about  time  now,  Major?" 

"It's  nigh  about  time,"  said  Will  Banion  quietly. 

They  rode  side  by  side,  past  more  than  a  mile  of  the 
covered  wagons,  now  almost  end  to  end,  the  columns 
continually  closing  up.  At  the  bank  of  the  river,  at  the 
ferry  head,  they  found  a  group  of  fifty  men.  The 
ranks  opened  as  Banion  and  Jackson  approached,  but 
Banion  made  no  attempt  to  join  a  council  to  which  he 
had  not  been  bidden. 

A  half  dozen  civilized  Indians  of  the  Kaws,  owners 
or  operators  of  the  ferry,  sat  in  a  stolid  line  across  the 
head  of  the  scow  at  its  landing  stage,  looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  the  left  and  awaiting  the  white  men's 
pleasure.  Banion  rode  down  to  them. 

"How  deep?"  he  asked. 

They  understood  but  would  not  answer. 

"Out  of  the  way!"  he  cried,  and  rode  straight  at 
them.  They  scattered.  He  spurred  his  horse,  the  black 
Spaniard,  over  the  stage  and  on  the  deck  of  the  scow, 
drove  him  its  full  length,  snorting;  set  the  spurs  hard 
at  the  farther  end  and  plunged  deliberately  off  into  the 
swift,  muddy  stream. 

The  horse  sank  out  of  sight  below  the  roily  surface. 
They  saw  the  rider  go  down  to  his  armpits;  saw  him 

62 


MAN  AGAINST  MAN 

swing  off  saddle,  upstream.  The  gallant  horse  headed 
for  the  center  of  the  heavy  current,  but  his  master 
soon  turned  him  downstream  and  inshore.  A  hundred 
yards  down  they  landed  on  a  bar  and  scrambled  up  the 
bank. 

Banion  rode  to  the  circle  and  sat  dripping.  He  had 
brought  not  speech  but  action,  not  theory  but  facts, 
and  he  had  not  spoken  a  word. 

His  eyes  covered  the  council  rapidly,  resting  on  the 
figure  of  Sam  Woodhull,  squatting  on  his  heels.  As 
though  to  answer  the  challenge  of  his  gaze,  the  latter 
rose. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "I'm  not,  myself,  governed 
by  any  mere  spirit  of  bravado.  It's  swimming  water, 
yes — any  fool  knows  that,  outside  of  yon  one.  What 
I  do  say  is  that  we  can't  afford  to  waste  time  here  fool 
ing  with  that  boat.  We've  got  to  swim  it.  I  agree 
with  you,  Wingate.  This  river's  been  forded  by  the 
trains  for  years,  and  I  don't  see  as  we  need  be  any  more 
chicken-hearted  than  those  others  that  went  through 
last  year  and  earlier.  This  is  the  old  fur-trader  cross 
ing,  the  Mormons  crossed  here,  and  so  can  we." 

Silence  met  his  words.  The  older  men  looked  at 
the  swollen  stream,  turned  to  the  horseman  who  had 
proved  it. 

"What  does  Major  Banion  say?"  spoke  up  a  voice. 

"Nothing!"  was  Banion's  reply,  "I'm  not  in  your 
council,  am  I?" 

"You  are,  as  much  as  any  man  here,"  spoke  up 

63 ' 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Caleb  Price,  and  Hall  and  Kelsey  added  yea  to  that. 
"Get  down.    Come  in." 

Banion  threw  his  rein  to  Jackson  and  stepped  into 
the  ring,  bowing  to  Jesse  Wingate,  who  sat  as  presid 
ing  officer. 

"Of  course  we  want  to  hear  what  Mr.  Banion  has 
to  say,"  said  he.  "He's  proved  part  of  the  question 
right  now.  I've  always  heard  it's  fording,  part  way, 
at  Papin's  Ferry.  It  don't  look  it  now." 

"The  river's  high,  Mr.  Wingate,"  said  Banion.  "If 
you  ask  me,  I'd  rather  ferry  than  ford.  I'd  send  the 
women  and  children  over  by  this  boat.  We  can  make 
some  more  out  of  the  wagon  boxes.  If  they  leak  we 
can  cover  them  with  hides.  The  sawmill  at  the  mission 
has  some  lumber.  Let's  knock  together  another  boat 
or  two.  I'd  rather  be  safe  than  sorry,  gentlemen; 
and  believe  me,  she's  heavy  water  yonder." 

"I've  never  seed  the  Kaw  so  full,"  asserted  Jackson, 
"an'  I've  crossed  her  twenty  times  in  spring  flood.  Do 
what  ye  like,  you-all — ole  Missoury's  goin'  to  take 
her  slow  an'  keerful." 

"Half  of  you  Liberty  men  are  a  bunch  of  damned 
cowards!"  sneered  Woodhull. 

There  was  silence.    An  icy  voice  broke  it. 

"I  take  it,  that  means  me?"  said  Will  Banion. 

"It  does  mean  you,  if  you  want  to  take  it  that  way," 
rejoined  his  enemy.  "I  don't  believe  in  one  or  two 
timid  men  holding  up  a  whole  train." 

"Never   mind  about   holding   up  the  train — we're 

64 


MAN  AGAINST  MAN 

not  stopping  any  man  from  crossing  right  now.    What 
I  have  in  mind  now  is  to  ask  you,  do  you  classify  me 
as  a  coward  just  because  I  counsel  prudence  here?" 
"You're  the  one  is  holding  back." 
"Answer  me!    Do  you  call  that  to  me?" 
"I  do  answer  you,  and  I  do  call  it  to  you  then!" 
flared  Woodhull. 

"I  tell  you,  you're  a  liar,  and  you  know  it,  Sam 
Woodhull !  And  if  it  pleases  your  friends  and  mine, 
I'd  like  to  have  the  order  now  made  on  unfinished  busi 


ness." 


Not  all  present  knew  what  this  meant,  for  only  a 
few  knew  of  the  affair  at  the  rendezvous,  the  Mis- 
sourians  having  held  their  counsel  in  the  broken  and 
extended  train,  where  men  might  travel  for  days  and 
not  meet.  But  Woodhull  knew,  and  sprang  to  his  feet, 
hand  on  revolver.  Banion's  hand  was  likewise  em 
ployed  at  his  wet  saddle  holster,  to  which  he  sprang, 
and  perhaps  then  one  man  would  have  been  killed  but 
for  Bill  Jackson,  who  spurred  between. 

"Make  one  move  an'  I  drop  ye !"  he  called  to  Wood- 
hull.  "Ye've  give  yer  promise." 

"All  right  then,  I'll  keep  it,"  growled  Woodhull. 

"Ye'd  better!  Now  listen!  Do  ye  see  that  tall 
cottingwood  tree  a  half  mile  down — the  one  with  the 
flat  umbreller  top,  like  a  cypress?  Ye  kin?  Well,  in 
half  a  hour  be  thar  with  three  o'  yore  friends,  no  more. 
I'll  be  thar  with  my  man  an'  three  o'  his,  no  more,  an' 
I'll  be  one  o'  them  three.  I  allow  our  meanin'  is  to 

65 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

see  hit  fa'r.  An'  I  allow  that  what  has  been  unfinished 
business  ain't  goin'  to  be  unfinished  come  sundown. 

"Does  this  suit  ye,  Will?" 

"It's  our  promise.  Officers  didn't  usually  fight  that 
way,  but  you  said  it  must  be  so,  and  we  both  agreed. 
I  agree  now." 

"You  other  folks  all  stay  back,"  said  Bill  Jackson 
grimly.  "This  here  is  a  little  matter  that  us  Mis- 
sourians  is  goin'  to  settle  in  our  own  way  an'  in  our 
own  camp.  Hit  ain't  none  o'  you-uns'  business.  Hit's 
plenty  o'  ourn." 

Men  started  to  their  feet  over  all  the  river  front. 
The  Indians  rose,  walked  down  the  bank  covertly. 

"Fight!" 

The  word  passed  quickly.  It  was  a  day  of  personal 
encounters.  This  was  an  assemblage  in  large  part  of 
fighting  men.  But  some  sense  of  decency  led  the 
partisans  to  hurry  away,  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of 
the  womenfolk. 

The  bell-top  cottonwood  stood  in  a  little  space  which 
had  been  a  dueling  ground  for  thirty  years.  The  grass 
was  firm  and  even  for  a  distance  of  fifty  yards  in  any 
direction,  and  the  light  at  that  hour  favored  neither 
man. 

For  Banion,  who  was  prompt,  Jackson  brought 
with  him  two  men.  One  of  them  was  a  planter  by  name 
of  Dillon,  the  other  none  less  than  stout  Caleb  Price, 
one  of  Wingate's  chosen  captains. 

"I'll  not  see  this  made  a  thing  of  politics,"  said  he. 
66 


MAN  AGAINST  MAN 

"I'm  Northern,  but  I  like  the  way  that  young  man  has 
acted.  He  hasn't  had  a  fair  deal  from  the  officers  of 
this  train.  He's  going  to  have  a  fair  deal  now." 

"We  allow  he  will,"  said  Dillon  grimly. 

He  was  fully  armed,  and  so  were  all  the  seconds.  For 
Woodhull  showed  the  Kentuckian,  Kelsey,  young  Jed 
Wingate — the  latter  by  Woodhull' s  own  urgent  re 
quest — and  the  other  train  captain,  Hall.  So  in  its  way 
the  personal  quarrel  of  these  two  hotheads  did  in  a 
way  involve  the  entire  train. 

"Strip  yore  man,"  commanded  the  tall  mountaineer. 
"We're  ready.  It's  go  till  one  hollers  enough;  fa'r 
stand  up,  heel  an'  toe,  no  buttin'  er  gougin'.  Fust  man 
ter  break  them  rules  gits  shot.  Is  that  yore  under 
standing  gentleman. 

"How  we  get  it,  yes,"  assented  Kelsey. 

"See  you  enforce  it  then,  fer  we're  a-goin*  to," 
concluded  Jackson. 

He  stepped  back.  From  the  opposite  sides  the  two 
antagonists  stepped  forward.  There  was  no  ring, 
there  was  no  timekeeper,  no  single  umpire.  There 
were  no  rounds,  no  duration  set.  It  was  man  to  man, 
for  cause  the  most  ancient  and  most  bitter  of  all 
causes — sex. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE     BRUTE 

BETWEEN  the  two  stalwart  men  who  fronted 
one  another,  stripped  to  trousers  and  shoes, 
there  was  not  so  much  to  choose.  Woodhull 
perhaps  had  the  better  of  it  by  a  few  pounds  in  weight, 
and  forsooth  looked  less  slouchy  out  of  his  clothes  than 
in  them.  His  was  the  long  and  sinewy  type  of  muscle. 
He  was  in  hard  condition. 

Banion,  two  years  younger  than  his  rival,  himself 
was  round  and  slender,  thin  of  flank,  a  trace  squarer 
and  fuller  of  shoulder.  His  arms  showed  easily  rippl 
ing  bands  of  muscles,  his  body  was  hard  in  the  natural 
vigor  of  youth  and  life  in  the  open  air.  His  eye  was 
fixed  all  the  time  on  his  man.  He  did  not  speak  or 
turn  aside,  but  walked  on  in. 

There  were  no  preliminaries,  there  was  no  delay. 
In  a  flash  the  Saxon  ordeal  of  combat  was  joined. 
The  two  fighters  met  in  a  rush. 

At  the  center  of  the  fighting  space  they  hung,  body 
to  body,  in  a  whirling  melee.  Neither  had  much  skill 
in  real  boxing,  and  such  fashion  of  fight  was  unknown 
in  that  region,  the  offensive  being  the  main  thing  and 
defense  remaining  incidental.  The  thud  of  fist  on 
face,  the  discoloration  that  rose  under  the  savage  blows, 

68 


THE  BRUTE 

the  blood  that  oozed  and  scattered,  proved  that  the 
fighting  blood  of  both  these  mad  creatures  was  up, 
so  that  they  felt  no  pain,  even  as  they  knew  no  fear. 

In  their  first  fly,  as  witnesses  would  have  termed  it, 
there  was  no  advantage  to  either,  and  both  came  out 
well  marked.  In  the  combat  of  the  time  and  place 
there  were  no  rules,  no  periods,  no  resting  times.  Once 
they  were  dispatched  to  it,  the  fight  was  the  affair  of 
the  fighters,  with  no  more  than  a  very  limited  number 
of  restrictions  as  to  fouls. 

They  met  and  broke,  bloody,  gasping,  once,  twice,  a 
dozen  times.  Banion  was  fighting  slowly,  carefully. 

"I'll  make  it  free,  if  you  dare!"  panted  Woodhull 
at  length. 

They  broke  apart  once  more  by  mutual  need  of 
breath.  He  meant  he  would  bar  nothing ;  he  would  go 
back  to  the  days  of  Boone  and  Kenton  and  Girty,  when 
lhair,  eye,  any  part  of  the  body  was  fair  aim. 

"You  can't  dare  me!"  rejoined  Will  Banion.  "It's 
.as  my  seconds  say." 

Young  Jed  Wingate,  suddenly  pale,  stood  by  and 

i  raised  no  protest.    Kelsey's  face  was  stony  calm.    The 

:  small  eye  of  Hall  narrowed,  but  he  too  held  to  the 

s etiquette  of  non-interference  in  this  matter  of  man  and 

man,  though  what  had  passed  here  was  a  deadly  thing. 

Mutilation,   death  might   now   ensue,   and   not  mere 

defeat.    But  they  all  waited  for  the  other  side. 

"Air  ye  game  to  hit,  Will?"  demanded  Jackson  at 
length. 

69 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"I  don't  fear  him,  anyway  he  comes,"  replied  Will 
Banion.     "I  don't  like  it,  but  all  of  this  was  forced 


on  me." 


"The  hell  it  was!"  exclaimed  Kelsey.  "I  heard  ye 
call  my  man  a  liar." 

"An'  he  called  my  man  a  coward !"  cut  in  Jackson. 

"He  is  a  coward,"  sneered  Woodhull,  panting,  "or 
he'd  not  flicker  now.  He's  afraid  I'll  take  his  eye 
out,  damn  him!" 

Will  Banion  turned  to  his  friends. 

"Are  we  gentlemen  at  all?"  said  he.  "Shall  we  go 
back  a  hundred  years?" 

"If  your  man's  afraid,  we  claim  the  fight!"  ex- 
claimed  Kelsey.  "Breast  yore  bird !" 

"So  be  it  then !"  said  Will  Banion.  "Don't  mind  me, 
Jackson !  I  don't  fear  him  and  I  think  I  can  beat  him. 
It's  free !  I  bar  nothing,  nor  can  he !  Get  back !" 

Woodhull  rushed  first  in  the  next  assault,  confident 
of  his  skill  in  rough-and-tumble.  He  felt  at  his  throat 
the  horizontal  arm  of  his  enemy.  He  caught  away 
the  wrist  in  his  own  hand,  but  sustained  a  heavy  blow 
at  the  side  of  his  head.  The  defense  of  his  adversary 
angered  him  to  blind  rage.  He  forgot  everything 
but  contact,  rushed,  closed  and  caught  his  antagonist 
in  the  brawny  grip  of  his  arms.  The  battle  at  once 
resolved  itself  into  the  wrestling  and  battering  match 
of  the  frontier.  And  it  was  free!  Each  might  kill 
or  maim  if  so  he  could. 

The  wrestling  grips  of  the  frontiersmen  were  few 

70 


THE  BRUTE 

and  primitive,  efficient  when  applied  by  masters;  and 
:no  schoolboy  but  studied  all  the  holds  as  matter  of 
i religion,  in  a  time  when  physical  prowess  was  the  most 
.admirable  quality  a  man  might  have. 

Each  fighter  tried  the  forward  jerk  and  trip  which 
:  sometimes  would  do  with  an  opponent  not  much 
: skilled;  but  this  primer  work  got  results  for  neither. 
Banion  evaded  and  swung  into  a  hip  lock,  so  swift 
tthat  Woodhull  left  the  ground.  But  his  instinct  gave 
!him  hold  with  one  hand  at  his  enemy's  collar.  He 
spread  wide  his  feet  and  cast  his  weight  aside,  so  that 
he  came  standing,  after  all.  He  well  knew  that  a  man 
:rnust  keep  his  feet.  Woe  to  him  who  fell  when  it  all 
was  free!  His  own  riposte  was  a  snakelike  glide  close 
ilnto  his  antagonist's  arms,  a  swift  thrust  of  his  leg 
'between  the  other's — the  grapevine,  which  sometimes 
served  if  done  swiftly. 

It  was  done  swiftly,  but  it  did  not  serve.  The  other 
:  spread  his  legs,  leaned  against  him,  and  in  a  flash  came 
Iback  in  the  dreaded  crotch  lock  of  the  frontier,  which 
isome  men  boasted  no  one  could  escape  at  their  hands. 
Woodhull  was  flung  fair,  but  he  broke  wide  and  rose 
-and  rushed  back  and  joined  again,  grappling;  so  that 
ithey  stood  once  more  body  to  body,  panting,  red, 
;  savage  as  any  animals  that  fight,  and  more  cruel.  The 
seconds  all  were  on  their  feet,  scarce  breathing. 

They  pushed   in   sheer  test,   and  each    found  the 

other's  stark  strength.    Yet  Banion's  breath  still  came 

<  even,  his  eye  betokened  no  anxiety  of  the  issue.    Both 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

were  bloody  now,  clothing  and  all.  Then  in  a  flash  the 
scales  turned  against  the  challenger  a  I' entrance. 

Banion  caught  his  antagonist  by  the  wrist,  and  swift 
as  a  flash  stooped,  turning  his  own  back  and  drawing 
the  arm  of  his  enemy  over  his  own  shoulder,  slightly 
turned,  so  that  the  elbow  joint  was  in  peril  and  so  that 
the  pain  must  be  intense.  It  was  one  of  the  jiu  jitsu 
holds,  discovered  independently  perhaps  at  that  instant ; 
certainly  a  new  hold  for  the  wrestling  school  of  the 
frontier. 

Woodhull's  seconds  saw  the  look  of  pain  come  on 
his  face,  saw  him  wince,  saw  him  writhe,  saw  him 
rise  on  his  toes.  Then,  with  a  sudden  squatting  heave, 
Banion  cast  him  full  length  in  front  of  him,  upon  his 
back!  Before  he  had  time  to  move  he  was  upon  him, 
pinning  him  down.  A  growl  came  from  six  observers. 

In  an  ordinary  fall  a  man  might  have  turned,  might 
have  escaped.  But  Woodhull  had  planned  his  own 
undoing  when  he  had  called  it  free.  Eyeless  men, 
usually  old  men,  in  this  day  brought  up  talk  of  the 
ancient  and  horrible  warfare  of  a  past  generation,  when 
destruction  of  the  adversary  was  the  one  purpose  and 
any  means  called  fair  when  it  was  free. 

But  the  seconds  of  both  men  raised  no  hand  when 
they  saw  the  balls  of  Will  Banion's  thumbs  pressed 
against  the  upper  orbit  edge  of  his  enemy's  eyes. 

"Do  you  say  enough?"  panted  the  victor. 

A  groan  from  the  helpless  man  beneath. 


THE  BRUTE 

"Am  I  the  best  man?  Can  I  whip  you?"  demanded 
the  voice  above  him,  in  the  formula  prescribed. 

"Go  on — do  it!  Pull  out  his  eye!"  commanded  Bill 
Jackson  savagely.  "He  called  it  free  to  you!  But 
don't  wait!" 

But  the  victor  sprang  free,  stood,  dashed  the  blood 
from  his  own  eyes,  wavered  on  his  feet. 

The  hands  of  his  fallen  foe  were  across  his  eyes. 
But  even  as  his  men  ran  in,  stooped  and  drew  them 
away  the  conqueror  exclaimed: 

"Fll  not!  I  tell  you  I  won't  maim  you,  free  or  no 
free!  Get  up!" 

So  Woodhull  knew  his  eyes  were  spared,  whatever 
might  be  the  pain  of  the  sore  nerves  along  the  socket 
bone. 

He  rose  to  his  knees,  to  his  feet,  his  face  ghastly  in 
his  own  sudden  sense  of  defeat,  the  worse  for  his 
victor's  magnanimity,  if  such  it  might  be  called. 
Humiliation  was  worse  than  pain.  He  staggered, 
sobbing. 

"I  won't  take  nothing  for  a  gift  from  you!" 

But  now  the  men  stood  between  them,  like  and  like. 
Young  Jed  Wingate  pushed  back  his  man. 

"It's  done!"  said  he.  "You  shan't  fight  no  more 
with  the  man  that  let  you  up.  You're  whipped,  and 
by  your  own  word  it'd  have  been  worse!" 

He  himself  handed  Will  Banion  his  coat. 
73 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Go  get  a  pail  of  water,"  he  said  to  Kelsey,  and  the 
latter  departed. 

Banion  stepped  apart,  battered  and  pale  beneath  his 
own  wounds. 

"I  didn't  want  to  fight  him  this  way,"  said  he.  "I 
left  him  his  eyes  so  he  can  see  me  again.  If  so  he 
wants,  I'll  meet  him  any  way.  I  hope  he  won't  rue 
back." 

"You  fool !"  said  old  Bill  Jackson,  drawing  Banion 
to  one  side.  "Do  ye  know  what  ye're  a-sayin'  ?  Whiles 
he  was  a-layin'  thar  I  seen  the  bottoms  o'  his  boots. 
Right  fancy  they  was,  with  smallish  heels!  That 
skunk'll  kill  ye  in  the  dark,  [Will.  Ye'd  orto  hev  put 
out'n  both  his  two  eyes!" 

A  sudden  sound  made  them  all  turn.  Came  crackling 
of  down  brush,  the  scream  of  a  woman's  voice.  At 
the  side  of  the  great  tree  stood  a  figure  that  had  no 
right  there.  They  turned  mute. 

It  was  Molly  Wingate  who  faced  them  all  now, 
turning  from  one  bloody,  naked  figure  to  the  other. 
She  saw  Sam  Woodhull  standing,  his  hands  still  at 
his  face;  caught  some  sense  out  of  Jackson's  words, 
overheard  as  she  came  into  the  clearing. 

"You!"  she  blazed  at  Will  Banion.  "You'd  put 
out  a  man's  eyes !  You  brute !" 


) 


CHAPTER  X 

OLE   MISSOURY 

MOLLY  WINGATE  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  group  of  silent,  shamefaced 
men.      Puzzled,   she  turned  again  to  the 
victor  in  the  savage  combat. 

"You!" 

Will  Banion  caught  up  his  clothing,  turned  away. 

"You  are  right!"  said  he.  "I  have  been  a  brute! 
Good-by!" 

An  instant  later  Molly  found  herself  alone  with 
the  exception  of  her  brother. 

"You,  Jed,  what  was  this?"  she  demanded. 

Jed  took  a  deep  and  heartfelt  chew  of  plug. 

"Well,  it  was  a  little  argument  between  them  two," 
he  said  finally.  "Like  enough  a  little  jealousy,  like, 
you  know — over  place  in  the  train,  or  something.  This 
here  was  for  men.  You'd  no  business  here." 

"But  it  was  a  shame!" 

"I  reckon  so." 

"Who  started  this?" 

"Both  of  them.  All  we  was  here  for  was  to  see  fair. 
Men  got  to  fight  sometimes." 

"But  not  like  animals,  not  worse  than  savages!" 

"Well,  it  was  right  savage,  some  of  the  time,  sis." 

"They  said — about  eyes — oh !" 
75 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

The  girl  shivered,  her  hands  at  her  own  eyes. 

"Yes,  they  called  it  free.  Anybody  else,  Sam  Wood- 
hull'd  be  sorry  enough  right  now.  T'other  man 
throwed  him  clean  and  had  him  down,  but  he  let  him 
up.  He  didn't  never  hurt  Sam's  eyes,  only  pinched 
his  head  a  little.  He  had  a  right,  but  didn't.  It  had 
to  be  settled  and  it  was  settled,  fair  and  more'n  fair, 
by  him." 

"But,  Jed" — the  eternal  female  now — "then,  which 
one  really  whipped?" 

"Will  Banion  did,  ain't  I  told  you?  You  insulted 
him,  and  he's  gone.  Having  come  in  here  where  you 
wasn't  no  ways  wanted,  I  reckon  the  best  thing  you 
can  do  is  to  go  back  to  your  own  wagon  and  stay 
there.  What  with  riding  horses  you  hadn't  ought, 
and  seeing  fights  when  you  don't  know  a  damned  thing 
about  nothing,  I  reckon  you've  made  trouble  about 
enough.  Come  on !" 

"Price,"  said  Bill  Jackon  to  the  grave  and  silent  man 
who  walked  with  him  toward  the  wagon  train  beyond 
the  duelling  ground,  "this  settles  hit.  Us  Missoury 
wagons  won't  go  on  under  no  sech  man  as  Sam  Wood- 
hull.  We  didn't  no  ways  eleck  him — he  was  app'inted. 
Mostly,  elected  is  better'n  app'inted.  An'  I  seen  afore 
now,  no  man  can  hold  his  place  on  the  trail  unless'n 
he's  fitten.  We'll  eleck  Will  Banion  our  cap'n,  an'  you 
fellers  kin  go  to  hell.  What  us  fellers  started  out  to 
do  was  to  go  to  Oregon." 

"But  that'll  mean  the  train's  split!" 
76 


OLE  MISSOURY 

"Shore  hit  will!  Hit  is  split  right  now.  But  thar's 
enough  o'  the  Liberty  wagons  to  go  through  without 
no  help.  We  kin  whup  all  the  rest  o'  this  train,  give 
we  need  ter,  let  alone  a  few  Injuns  now  an'  then. 

"To-night,"  he  concluded,  "we'll  head  up  the  river, 
an'  leave  you  fellers  the  boat  an'  all  o'  Papin's  Ferry 
to  git  acrost  the  way  you  want.  Thar  hain't  no  man 
ner  o'  man,  outfit,  river  er  redskin  that  Ole  Missoury 
kain't  lick,  take  'em  as  they  come,  them  to  name  the 
holts  an'  the  rules.  We  done  showed  you-all  that. 
We're  goin'  to  show  you  some  more.  So  good-by." 
He  held  out  his  hand.  "Ye  helped  see  far,  an'  ye're 
a  far  man,  an'  we'll  miss  ye.  Ef  ye  git  in  need  o' 
help  come  to  us.  Ole  Missoury  won't  need  no  help." 

"Well,  Woodhull's  one  of  you  Missourians,"  re 
marked  Price. 

"Yes,  but  he'ain't  bred  true.  Major  Banion  is.  Hit 
was  me  that  made  him  fight  knuckle  an'  skull  an'  not 
with  weepons.  He  didn't  want  to,  but  I  had  a  reason. 
I'm  content  an'  soothe  jest  the  way  she  lies.  Ef  Will 
never  sees  the  gal  agin  she  ain't  wuth  the  seein*. 

"Ye'll  find  Col.  William  Banion  at  the  head  o'  his 
own  train.  He's  ntten,  an'  he's  fout  an'  proved  hit." 


CHAPTER   XI 

WHEN     ALL    THE     WORLD     WAS     YOUNG 

MOLLY  WINGATE  kneeled  by  her  cooking 
fire  the  following  morning,  her  husband 
meantime  awaiting  the  morning  meal  impa 
tiently.  All  along  the  medley  of  crowded  wagons  rose 
confused  sounds  of  activity  at  a  hundred  similar  fire 
sides. 

"Where's  Little  Molly?"  demanded  Wingate.  "We 
got  to  be  up  and  coming." 

"Her  and  Jed  is  off  after  the  cattle.  Well,  you 
heard  the  news  last  night.  You've  got  to  get  some 
one  else  to  run  the  herd.  If  each  family  drives  its 
own  loose  stock  everything'11  be  all  mixed  up.  The  Lib 
erty  outfit  pulled  on  by  at  dawn.  Well,  anyways  they 
left  us  the  sawmill  and  the  boat. 

"Sam  Woodhull,  he's  anxious  to  get  on  ahead  of  the 
Missourians,"  she  added.  "He  says  he'll  take  the  boat 
anyhow,  and  not  pay  them  Kaws  any  such  hold-up 
price  like  they  ask." 

"All  I  got  to  say  is,  I  wish  we  were  across,"  grum 
bled  Wingate,  stooping  to  the  bacon  spider. 

"Huh !  So  do  I — me  and  my  bureau  and  my  hens. 
Yes,  after  you've  fussed  around  a  while  you  men'll 
maybe  come  to  the  same  conclusion  your  head  cow; 

78 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

guard  had ;  you'll  be  making  more  boats  and  doing  less 
swimming.  I'm  sorry  he  quit  us." 

"It's  the  girl,"  said  her  husband  sententiously. 

"Yes.  But" — smiling  grimly — "one  furse  don't 
make  a  parting." 

"She's  same  as  promised  Sam  Woodhull,  Molly, 
and  you  know  that." 

"Before  he  got  whipped  by  Colonel  Banion." 

"Colonel !  Fine  business  for  an  officer !  Woodhull 
told  me  he  tripped  and  this  other  man  was  on  top  of 
him  and  nigh  gouged  out  his  two  eyes.  And  he  told 
me  other  things  too.  Banion's  a  traitor,  to  split  the 
train.  We  can  spare  all  such." 

"Can  we?"  rejoined  his  wife.     "I  sort  of  thought 
>» 

"Never  mind  what  you  thought  He's  one  of  the 
unruly,  servigerous  sort ;  can't  take  orders,  and  a  trou 
ble  maker  always.  We'll  show  that  outfit.  I've  ordered 
three  more  scows  built  and  the  seams  calked  in  the 
wagon  boxes." 

Surely  enough,  the  Banion  plan  of  crossing,  after 
all,  was  carried  out,  and  although  the  river  dropped  a 
foot  meantime,  the  attempt  to  ford  en  masse  was  aban 
doned.  Little  by  little  the  wagon  parks  gathered  on 
the  north  bank,  each  family  assorting  its  own  goods 
and  joining  in  the  general  sauve  qui  peut. 

Nothing  was  seen  of  the  Missouri  column,  but  ru 
mor  said  they  were  ferrying  slowly,  with  one  boat  and 
their  doubled  wagon  boxes,  over  which  they  had  nailed 

79 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

hides.  Woodhull  was  keen  to  get  on  north  ahead  of 
this  body.  He  had  personal  reasons  for  that.  None 
too  well  pleased  at  the  smiles  with  which  his  explana 
tions  of  his  bruised  face  were  received,  he  made  a 
sudden  resolution  to  take  a  band  of  his  own  immediate 
neighbors  and  adherents  and  get  on  ahead  of  the  Mis- 
sourians.  He  based  his  decision,  as  he  announced  it, 
on  the  necessity  of  a  scouting  party  to  locate  grass  and 
water. 

Most  of  the  men  who  joined  him  were  single  men, 
of  the  more  restless  sort.  There  were  no  family  wag 
ons  with  them.  They  declared  their  intention  of  trav 
eling  fast  and  light  until  they  got  among  the  buffalo. 
This  party  left  in  advance  of  the  main  caravan,  which 
had  not  yet  completed  the  crossing  of  the  Kaw. 

"Roll  out!  Ro-o-o-11  out!"  came  the  mournful  com 
mand  at  last,  once  more  down  the  line. 

It  fell  on  the  ears  of  some  who  were  unwilling  to 
obey.  The  caravan  was  disintegrating  at  the  start. 
The  gloom  cast  by  the  long  delay  at  the  ford  had  now 
resolved  itself  in  certain  instances  into  fear  amounting 
half  to  panic.  Some  companies  of  neighbors  said  the 
entire  train  should  wait  for  the  military  escort;  others 
declared  they  would  not  go  further  west,  but  would 
turn  back  and  settle  here,  where  the  soil  was  so  good. 
Still  others  said  they  all  should  lie  here,  with  good 
grass  and  water,  until  further  word  came  from  the 
Platte  Valley  train  and  until  they  had  more  fully  de 
cided  what  to  do.  In  spite  of  all  the  officers  could  do, 

80 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

the  general  advance  was  strung  out  over  two  or  three 
miles.  The  rapid  loss  in  order,  these  premature  divi 
sions  of  the  train,  augured  ill  enough. 

The  natural  discomforts  of  the  trail  now  also  began 
to  have  their  effect.  A  plague  of  green-headed  flies 
and  flying  ants  assailed  them  by  day,  and  at  night  the 
mosquitoes  made  an  affliction  well-nigh  insufferable. 
The  women  and  children  could  not  sleep,  the  horses 
groaned  all  night  under  the  clouds  of  tormentors  which 
gathered  on  them.  Early  as  it  was,  the  sun  at  times 
blazed  with  intolerable  fervor,  or  again  the  heat  broke 
in  savage  storms  of  thunder,  hail  and  rain.  All  the 
elements,  all  the  circumstances  seemed  in  league  to 
warn  them  back  before  it  was  too  late,  for  indeed 
they  were  not  yet  more  than  on  the  threshold  of  the 
Plains. 

The  spring  rains  left  the  ground  soft  in  places,  so 
that  in  creek  valleys  stretches  of  corduroy  sometimes 
had  to  be  laid  down.  The  high  waters  made  even  the 
lesser  fords  difficult  and  dangerous,  and  all  knew  that 
between  them  and  the  Platte  ran  several  strong  and 
capricious  rivers,  making  in  general  to  the  southeast 
and  necessarily  transected  by  the  great  road  to  Oregon. 

They  still  were  in  the  eastern  part  of  what  is  now 
the  state  of  Kansas,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
exuberantly  rich  portions  of  the  country,  as  all  early 
travelers  declared.  The  land  lay  in  a  succession  of 
timber-lined  valleys  and  open  prairie  ridges.  Groves 
of  walnut,  oak,  hickory,  elm,  ash  at  first  were  fre- 

81 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

quent,  slowly  changing,  farther  west,  to  larger 
portions  of  poplar,  willow  and  cottonwood.  The  whits 
dogwood  passed  to  make  room  for  scattering  thickets 
of  wild  plum.  Wild  tulips,  yellow  or  of  broken  colors ; 
the  campanula,  the  wild  honeysuckle,  lupines — not  yet 
quite  in  bloom — the  sweetbrier  and  increasing  quanti 
ties  of  the  wild  rose  gave  life  to  the  always  changing 
scene.  Wild  game  of  every  sort  was  unspeakably 
abundant —  deer  and  turkey  in  every  bottom,  thou 
sands  of  grouse  on  the  hills,  vast  flocks  of  snipe  and 
plover,  even  numbers  of  the  green  parrakeets  then  so 
numerous  along  that  latitude.  The  streams  abounded 
in  game  fish.  All  Nature  was  easy  and  generous. 

Men  and  women  grumbled  at  leaving  so  rich  and 
beautiful  a  land  lying  waste.  None  had  seen  a  coun 
try  more  supremely  attractive.  Emotions  of  tender 
ness,  of  sadness,  also  came  to  many.  Nostalgia  was 
not  yet  shaken  off.  This  strained  condition  of  nerves, 
combined  with  the  trail  hardships,  produced  the  physi 
cal  irritation  which  is  inevitable  in  all  amateur  pioneer 
work.  Confusions,  discordances,  arising  over  the  most 
trifling  circumstances,  grew  into  petulance,  incivility, 
wrangling  and  intrigue,  as  happened  in  so  many  other 
earlier  caravans.  In  the  Babel-like  excitement  of  the 
morning  catch-up,  amid  the  bellowing  and  running  of 
the  cattle  evading  the  yoke,  more  selfishness,  less 
friendly  accommodation  now  appeared,  and  men  met 
without  speaking,  even  this  early  on  the  road. 

The  idea  of  four  parallel  columns  had  long  since 
82 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

been  discarded.  They  broke  formation,  and  at  times 
the  long  caravan,  covering  the  depressions  and  emi 
nences  of  the  prairie,  wound  along  in  mile-long  detach 
ments,  each  of  which  hourly  grew  more  surly  and  more 
independent.  Overdriven  oxen  now  began  to  drop. 
By  the  time  the  prairies  proper  were  reached  more  than 
a  score  of  oxen  had  died.  They  were  repeating  trail 
history  as  recorded  by  the  travelers  of  that  day. 

Personal  and  family  problems  also  made  divisions 
more  natural.  Many  suffered  from  ague;  fevers  were 
very  common.  An  old  woman  past  seventy  died  one 
night  and  was  buried  by  the  wayside  the  next  day. 
Ten  days  after  the  start  twins  were  born  to  parents 
moving  out  to  Oregon.  There  were  numbers  of  young 
children,  many  of  them  in  arms,  who  became  ill.  For 
one  or  other  cause,  wagons  continually  were  dropping 
out.  It  was  difficult  for  some  wagons  to  keep  up,  the 
unseasoned  oxen  showing  distress  under  loads  too 
heavy  for  their  draft.  It  was  by  no  means  a  solid  and 
compact  army,  after  all,  this  west-bound  wave  of  the 
first  men  with  plows.  All  these  things  sat  heavily  on 
the  soul  of  Jesse  Wingate,  who  daily  grew  more 
morose  and  grim. 

As  the  train  advanced  bands  of  antelope  began  to 
appear.  The  striped  prairie  gophers  gave  place  to  the 
villages  of  countless  barking  prairie  dogs,  curious  to 
the  eyes  of  the  newcomers.  At  night  the  howling  and 
snarling  of  gray  wolves  now  made  regular  additions  to 
the  coyote  chorus  and  the  voices  of  the  owls  and  whip- 

83 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

poorwills.  Little  by  little,  day  by  day,  civilization  was 
passing,  the  need  for  organization  daily  became  more 
urgent.  Yet  the  original  caravan  had  split  practically 
into  three  divisions  within  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
from  the  jump-off,  although  the  bulk  of  the  train  hung 
to  Wingate's  company  and  began  to  shake  down,  at 
least  into  a  sort  of  tolerance. 

Granted  good  weather,  as  other  travelers  had  writ 
ten,  it  was  indeed  impossible  to  evade  the  sense  of 
exhilaration  in  the  bold,  free  life.  At  evening  encamp, 
ment  the  scene  was  one  worthy  of  any  artist  of  all  the 
world.  The  oblong  of  the  wagon  park,  the  white  tents, 
the  many  fires,  made  a  spectacle  of  marvelous  charm 
and  power.  Perhaps  within  sight,  at  one  time,  under 
guard  for  the  evening  feed  on  the  fresh  young  grass, 
there  would  be  two  thousand  head  of  cattle.  In  the 
wagon  village  men,  women  and  children  would  be  en 
gaged  as  though  at  home.  There  was  little  idleness 
in  the  train,  and  indeed  there  was  much  gravity  and 
devoutness  in  the  personnel.  At  one  fireside  the  young 
men  might  be  roaring  "Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good 
old  man,"  or  "Oh,  then,  Susannah" ;  but  quite  as  likely 
close  at  hand  some  family  group  would  be  heard  in 
sacred  hymns.  A  strange  envisagement  it  all  made,  in 
a  strange  environment,  a  new  atmosphere,  here  on  the 
threshold  of  the  wilderness.1 

1  To  get  the  local  descriptions,  the  color,  atmosphere,  "feel"  of 
a  day  and  a  country  so  long  gone  by,  any  writer  of  to-day  must 
go  to  writers  of  another  day.  The  Author  would  acknowledge 
free  use  of  the  works  of  Palmer,  Bryant,  Kelly  and  others  who 
give  us  journals  of  the  great  transcontinental  trail 

84 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  DEAD  MEN'S  TALE 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

The  column  leaders  all  galloped  forward,  seeing  first 
what  later  most  of  the  entire  train  saw — the  abom 
inable  phenomena  of  Indian  warfare  on  the  Plains. 

Scattered  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  where  the  wag 
ons  had  stood  not  grouped  and  perhaps  not  guarded, 
lay  heaps  of  wreckage  beside  heaps  of  ashes.  One  by 
one  the  corpses  were  picked  out,  here,  there,  over  more 
than  a  mile  of  ground.  They  had  fought,  yes,  but 
fought  each  his  own  losing  individual  battle  after  what 
had  been  a  night  surprise. 

The  swollen  and  blackened  features  of  the  dead 
men  stared  up,  mutilated  as  savages  alone  mark  the 
fallen.  Two  wrere  staked  out,  hand  and  foot,  and  ashes 
lay  near  them,  upon  them.  Arrows  stood  up  between 
the  ribs  of  the  dead  men,  driven  through  and  down 
into  the  ground.  A  dozen  mules,  as  Jackson  had  said, 
drooped  with  low  heads  and  hanging  ears,  arrow  shafts 
standing  out  of  their  paunches,  waiting  for  death  to 
end  their  agony. 

"Finish  them,  Jackson." 

Wingate  handed  the  hunter  his  own  revolver,  sig 
naling  for  Kelsey  and  Hall  to  do  the  same.  The 
methodical  cracking  of  the  hand  arms  began  to  end 
the  suffering  of  the  animals. 

They  searched  for  scraps  of  clothing  to  cover  the 
faces  of  the  dead,  the  bodies  of  some  dead.  They 
motioned  the  women  and  children  back  when  the  head 
of  the  train  came  up.  Jackson  beckoned  the  leaders 
to  the  side  of  one  wagon,  partially  burned. 

86 


THE  DEAD  MEN'S  TALE 

"Look,"  said  he,  pointing. 

A  long  stick,  once  a  whipstock,  rose  from  the  front 
of  the  wagon  bed.  It  had  been  sharpened  and  thrust 
under  the  wrist  skin  of  a  human  hand — a  dried  hand, 
not  of  a  white  man,  but  a  red.  A  half -corroded  brace 
let  of  copper  still  clung  to  the  wrist. 

"If  I  read  signs  right,  that's  why!"  commented  Bill 
Jackson. 

"But  how  do  you  explain  it?"  queried  Hall.  "Why 
should  they  do  that?  And  how  could  they,  in  so  close 
a  fight?" 

"They  couldn't,"  said  Jackson.  "That  hand's  a  day 
an'  a  half  older  than  these  killings.  Hit's  Sam  Wood- 
i' hull's  wagon.  Well,  the  Pawnees  like  enough  counted 
'coup  on  the  man  that  swung  that  hand  up  for  a  sign, 
even  if  hit  wasn't  one  o'  their  own  people." 

"Listen,  men,"  he  concluded,  "hit  was  WoodhulFs 
fault.  We  met  some  friendlies — Kaws — from  the 
mission,  an'  they  was  mournin'.  A  half  dozen  o'  them 
follered  Woodhull  out  above  the  ferry  when  he  pulled 
out.  They  told  him  he  hadn't  paid  them  for  their  boat, 
asked  him  for  more  presents.  He  got  mad,  so  they 
say,  an'  shot  down  one  o'  them  an'  stuck  up  his  hand 
| — fer  a  warnin',  so  he  said. 

"The  Kaws  didn't  do  this  killin'.  This  band  of 
'awnees  was  away  down  below  their  range.  The 

,ws  said  they  was  comin'  fer  a  peace  council,  to  git 
the  Kaws  an'  Otoes  to  raise  against  us  whites,  comin' 
out  so  many,  with  plows  and  womern folks — they  savvy. 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Well,  the  Kaws  has  showed  the  Pawnees.  The  Paw* 
nees  has  showed  us." 

"Yes,"  said  the  deep  voice  of  Caleb  Price,  property 
owner  and  head  of  a  family;  "they've  showed  us  that 
Sam  Woodhull  was  not  fit  to  trust.  There's  one  man 
that  is." 

"Do  you  want  him  along  with  your  wagons?"  de 
manded  Jackson.  He  turned  to  Wingate. 

"Well,"  said  the  train  captain  after  a  time,  "we  are 
striking  the  Indian  country  now." 

"Shall  I  bring  up  our  wagons  an*  jine  ye  all  here  at 
the  ford  this  evenin'?" 

"I  can't  keep  you  from  coming  on  up  the  road  if 
you  want  to.  I'll  not  ask  you." 

"All  right !  We'll  not  park  with  ye  then.  But  we'll 
be  on  the  same  water.  Hit's  my  own  fault  we  split. 
We  wouldn't  take  orders  from  Sam  Woodhull,  an' 
we  never  will." 

He  nodded  to  the  blackened  ruins,  to  the  grim  dead 
hand  pointing  to  the  sky,  left  where  it  was  by  the  super 
stitious  blood  avengers. 

Wingate  turned  away  and  led  the  wagon  train  a  half 
mile  up  the  stream,  pitching  camp  above  the  ford  where 
the  massacre  had  occurred.  The  duties  of  the  clergy 
and  the  appointed  sextons  were  completed  Silence 
and  sadness  fell  on  the  encampment. 

Jackson,  the  scout  of  the  Missouri  column,  still 
lingered  for  some  sort  of  word  with  Molly  Wingate. 
Some  odds  and  ends  of  brush  lay  about.  Of  the  latter 

88 


THE  DEAD  MEN'S  TALE 

Molly  began  casting  a  handful  on  the  fire  and  covering 
it  against  the  wind  with  her  shawl,  which  at  times  she 
quickly  removed.  As  a  result  the  confined  smoke  arose 
at  more  or  less  well  defined  intervals,  in  separate  puffs 
or  clouds. 

"Ef  ye  want  to  know  how  to  give  the  smoke  signal 
right  an'  proper,  Miss  Molly,"  said  he  at  length, 
quietly,  "I'll  larn  ye  how." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  it" 

"This  way :  Hit  takes  two  to  do  hit  best.  You  catch 
holt  two  corners  o'  the  shawl  now.  Hist  it  on  a  stick 
in  the  middle.  Draw  it  down  all  over  the  fire.  Let  her 
simmer  under  some  green  stuff.  Now!  Lift  her  clean 
off,  sideways,  so's  not  ter  break  the  smoke  ball.  See 
'em  go  up?  That's  how." 

He  looked  at  the  girl  keenly  under  his  bushy  gray 
brows. 

"That's  the  Injun  signal  fer  'Enemy  in  the  country/ 
S'pose  you  ever  wanted  to  signal,  say  to  white  folks, 
'Friend  in  the  country,'  you  might  remember — three 
short  puffs  an'  one  long  one.  That  might  bring  up  a 
friend.  Sech  a  signal  can  be  seed  a  long  ways." 

Molly  flushed  to  the  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothin*  at  all,  any  more'n  you  do." 

Jackson  rose  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

WILD    FIRE 

THE  afternoon  wore  on,  much  occupied  with 
duties  connected  with  the  sad  scenes  of  the 
tragedy.  No  word  came  of  Woodhull,  or  of 
two  others  who  could  not  be  identified  as  among  the 
victims  at  the  death  camp.  No  word,  either,  came 
from  the  Missourians,  and  so  cowed  or  dulled  were 
most  of  the  men  of  the  caravan  that  they  did  not 
venture  far,  even  to  undertake  trailing  out  after  the 
survivors  of  the  massacre.  In  sheer  indecision  the  great 
aggregation  of  wagons,  piled  up  along  the  stream,  lay 
apathetic,  and  no  order  came  for  the  advance. 

Jed  and  his  cow  guards  were  obliged  to  drive  tlie 
cattle  back  into  the  ridges  for  better  grazing,  for  the 
valley  and  adjacent  country,  which  had  not  been  burnci 
over  by  the  Indians  the  preceding  fall,  held  a  lower 
matting  of  heavy  dry  grass  through  which  the  grec- 
grass  of  springtime  appeared  only  in  sparser  and  mo  e 
smothered  growth.  As  many  of  the  cattle  and  hors  3 
even  now  showed  evil  results  from  injudicious  driving 
on  the  trail,  it  was  at  length  decided  to  make  a  full 
day's  stop  so  that  they  might  feed  up. 

Molly  Wingate,  now  assured  that  the  Pawnees  no 
longer  were  in  the  vicinity,  ventured  out  for  pasturage 

90 


WILD  FIRE 

with  her  team  of  mules,  which  she  had  kept  tethered 
close  to  her  own  wagon.  She  now  rapidly  was  becom 
ing  a  good  f rentier swoman  and  thoughtful  of  her  loco 
motive  power.  Taking  the  direction  of  the  cattle  herd, 
she  drove  from  camp  a  mile  or  two,  resolving  to  hobble 
and  watch  her  mules  while  they  grazed  close  to  the 
cattle  guards. 

She  was  alone.  Around  her,  untouched  by  any  civ 
ilization,  lay  a  wild,  free  world.  The  ceaseless  wind 
of  the  prairie  swept  old  and  new  grass  into  a  continuous 
undulating  surface,  silver  crested,  a  wave  always  pass 
ing,  never  past.  The  sky  was  unspeakably  fresh  and 
blue,  with  its  light  clouds,  darker  edged  toward  the 
far  horizon  of  the  unbounded,  unbroken  expanse  of 
alternating  levels  and  low  hills.  Across  the  broken 
ridges  passed  the  teeming  bird  life  of  the  land.  The 
Eskimo  plover  in  vast  bands  circled  and  sought  their 
nesting  places.  Came  also  the  sweep  of  cinnamon  wings 
as  the  giant  sickle-billed  curlews  wheeled  in  vast  aerial 
phalanx,  with  their  eager  cries,  "Curlee!  Curlee! 
Curlee!" — the  wildest  cry  of  the  old  prairies.  Again, 
from  some  unknown,  undiscoverable  place,  came  the 
liquid,  baffling,  mysterious  note  of  the  nesting  upland 
plover,  sweet  and  clean  as  pure  white  honey. 

Now  and  again  a  band  of  antelope  swept  ghostlike 
acioss  a  ridge.  A  great  gray  wolf  stood  contemptu 
ously  near  on  a  hillock,  gazing  speculatively  at  the 
strange  new  creature,  the  white  woman,  new  come  in 
his  lands.  It  was  the  wilderness,  rude,  bold,  yet  sweet. 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Who  shall  say  what  thoughts  the  flowered  wilder 
ness  of  spring  carried  to  the  soul  of  a  young  worn,  n 
beautiful  and  ripe  for  love,  her  heart  as  sweet  «.nd 
melting  as  that  of  the  hidden  plover  telling  her  n/  te 
of  happiness?  Surely  a  strange  spell,  born  of  y  ch 
and  all  this  free  world  of  things  beginning,  fell  on  -ie 
soul  of  Molly  Wingate.  She  sat  and  dreamed,  K  r 
hands  idle,  her  arms  empty,  her  beating  pulses  uil, 
her  heart  full  of  a  maid's  imaginings. 

How  long  she  sat  alone,  miles  apart,  an  unnoticed 
figure,  she  herself  could  not  have  said — surely  the  sun 
was  past  zenith — when,  moved  by  some  vague  feeling 
of  her  own,  she  noticed  the  uneasiness  of  her  feeding 
charges. 

The  mules,  hobbled  and  side-lined  as  Jed  had  shown 
her,  turned  face  to  the  wind,  down  the  valley,  standing 
for  a  time  studious  and  uncertain  rather  than  alarmed. 
Then,  their  great  ears  pointed,  they  became  uneasy; 
stirred,  stamped,  came  back  again  to  their  position, 
gazing  steadily  in  the  one  direction. 

The  ancient  desert  instinct  of  the  wild  ass,  brought 
down  through  thwarted  generations,  never  had  been 
lost  to  them.  They  had  foreknowledge  of  danger 
long  before  horses  or  human  beings  could  suspect  it. 

Danger  ?  What  was  it  ?  Something,  surely.  Molly 
sprang  to  her  feet.  A  band  of  antelope,  running,  had 
paused  a  hundred  yards  away,  gazing  back.  Danger — 
yes;  but  what? 

The  girl  ran  to  the  crest  of  the  nearest  hillock  and 

92 


WILD  FIRE 

looked  back.  Even  as  she  did  so,  it  seemed  that  she 
caught  touch  of  the  great  wave  of  apprehension  spread 
ing  swiftly  over  the  land. 

Far  off,  low  lying  like  a  pale  blue  cloud,  was  a  faint 
line  of  something  that  seemed  to  alter  in  look,  to  move, 
to  rise  and  fall,  to  advance — down  the  wind.  She 
never  had  seen  it,  but  knew  what  it  must  be — the 
prairie  fire !  The  lack  of  fall  burning  had  left  it  fuel 
even  now. 

Vast  numbers  of  prairie  grouse  came  by,  hurtling 
through  the  silence,  alighting,  strutting  with  high 
heads,  fearlessly  close.  Gray  creatures  came  hopping, 
halting  or  running  fully  extended — the  prairie  hares, 
fleeing  far  ahead.  Band  after  band  of  antelope  came 
on,  running  easily,  but  looking  back.  A  heavy  line  of 
large  birds,  black  to  the  eye,  beat  on  laboriously, 
alighted,  and  ran  onward  with  incredible  speed — the 
wild  turkeys,  fleeing  the  terror.  Came  also  broken 
bands  of  white- tailed  deer,  easy,  elastic,  bounding 
irregularly,  looking  back  at  the  miles-wide  cloud,  which 
now  and  then  spun  up,  black  as  ink  toward  the  sky, 
but  always  flattened  and  came  onward  with  the  wind. 

Danger?  Yes!  Worse  than  Indians,  for  yonder 
were  the  cattle ;  there  lay  the  parked  train,  two  hundred 
wagons,  with  the  household  goods  that  meant  their  life 
savings  and  their  future  hope  in  far-off  Oregon. 
iWomen  were  there,  and  children — women  with  babes 
that  could  not  walk.  True,  the  water  lay  close,  but 
it  was  narrow  and  deep  and  offered  no  salvation  against 

93 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

the  terror  now  coming  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

That  the  prairie  fire  would  find  in  this  strip  fuel  to 
carry  it  even  at  this  green  season  of  the  grass  the  wily 
Pawnees  had  known.  This  was  cheaper  than  assault 
by  arms.  They  would  wither  and  scatter  the  white 
nation  here!  Worse  than  plumed  warriors  was  yon 
der  broken  undulating  line  of  the  prairie  fire. 

Instinct  told  the  white  girl,  gave  her  the  same  terror: 
as  that  which  inspired  all  these  fleeing  creatures.  But 
what  could  she  do?  This  was  an  elemental,  gigantic 
wrath,  and  she  but  a  frightened  girl.  She  guessed 
rather  than  reasoned  what  it  would  mean  when  yonder 
line  came  closer,  when  it  would  sweep  down,  roaring, 
over  the  wagon  train. 

The  mules  began  to  bray,  to  plunge,  too  wise  to 
undertake  flight.  She  would  at  least  save  them.  She 
would  mount  one  and  ride  with  the  alarm  for  the  camp. 

The  wise  animals  let  her  come  close,  did  not  plunge, 
knew  that  she  meant  help,  allowed  her  trembling  hanr  ; 
to  loose  one  end  of  the  hobble  straps,  but  no  more.  A ..; 
soon  as  each  mule  got  its  feet  it  whirled  and  was  away. 
No  chance  to  hold  one  of  them  now,  and  if  she  had 
mounted  a  hobbled  animal  it  had  meant  nothing.  But 
she  saw  them  go  toward  the  stream,  toward  the  camp. 
She  must  run  that  way  herself. 

It  was  so  far!  There  was  a  faint  smell  of  smoke 
and  a  mysterious  low  humming  in  the  air.  Was  it 
too  late? 

A  swift,  absurd,  wholly  useless  memory  came  to 
94 


! 


WILD  FIRE 

Hr  from  the  preceding  day.  Yes,  it  would  be  no  more 
than  a  prayer,  but  she  would  send  it  out  blindly  into 
the  air.  ,  .  .  Some  instinct — yes,  quite  likely. 

Molly  ran  to  her  abandoned  wagonette,  pushed  in 
under  the  white  tilt  where  her  pallet  bed  lay  rolled,  her 
little  personal  plunder  stored  about.  Fumbling,  she 
found  her  sulphur  matches.  She  would  build  her  sig 
nal  fire.  It  was,  at  least,  all  that  she  could  do.  It 
might  at  least  alarm  the  camp. 

Trembling,  she  looked  about  her,  tore  her  hands 
breaking  off  little  faggots  of  tall  dry  weed  stems,  a 
very  few  bits  of  wild  thorn  and  fragments  of  a  plum 
thicket  in  the  nearest  shallow  coulee.  She  ran  to  her 
hillock,  stooped  and  broke  a  dozen  matches,  knowing 
too  little  of  fire-making  in  the  wind.  But  at  last  she 
caught  a  wisp  of  dry  grass,  a  few  dry  stems — others, 
the  bits  of  wild  plum  branches.  She  shielded  her  tiny 
fslaze  with  her  frock,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder, 
where  the  black  curtain  was  rising  taller.  Now  and 
then,  even  in  the  blaze  of  full  day,  a  red,  dull  gleam  rose 
and  passed  swiftly.  The  entire  country  was  afire. 
Fuel?  Yes;  and  a  wind. 

The  humming  in  the  air  grew,  the  scent  of  fire  came 
plainly.  The  plover  rose  around  their  nests  and  circled, 
crying  piteously.  The  scattered  hares  became  a  great 
body  of  moving  gray,  like  camouflage  blots  on  the  still 
undulating  waves  of  green  and  silver,  passing  but  not 
yet  past — soon  now  to  pass. 

The  girl,  her  hands  arrested,  her  arms  out,  in  her 
95 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

terror,  stood  trying  to  remember.  Yes,  it  was  three 
short  puffs  and  a  long  pillar.  She  caught  her  shawl 
from  her  shoulder,  stooped,  spread  it  with  both  hands, 
drove  in  her  stiff est  bough  for  a  partial  support,  cast 
in  under  the  edge,  timidly,  green  grass  enough  to  make 
smoke,  she  hoped. 

An  instant  and  she  sprang  up,  drawing  the  shawl 
swiftly  aside,  the  next  moment  jealously  cutting 
through  the  smoke  with  a  side  sweep  of  the  covering. 

It  worked!  The  cut-off  column  rose,  bent  over  in 
a  little  detached  cloud.  Again,  with  a  quick  flirt,  eager 
eyed,  and  again  the  detached  irregular  ball!  A  third 
time — Molly  rose,  and  now  cast  on  dry  grass  and  green 
grass  till  a  tall  and  moving  pillar  of  cloud  by  day  arose. 

At  least  she  had  made  her  prayer.  She  could  do  no 
more.  With  vague  craving  for  any  manner  of  refuge, 
she  crawled  to  her  wagon  seat  and  covered  her  eyes. 
She  knew  that  the  wagon  train  was  warned — they  now 
would  need  but  little  warning,  for  the  menace  was 
written  all  across  the  world. 

She  sat  she  knew  not  how  long,  but  until  she  became 
conscious  of  a  roaring  in  the  air.  The  line  of  fire  had 
come  astonishingly  soon,  she  reasoned.  But  she  forgot 
that.  All  the  vanguard  and  the  full  army  of  wild 
creatures  had  passed  by  now.  She  alone,  the  white 
woman,  most  helpless  of  the  great  creatures,  stood  be 
fore  the  terror. 

She  sprang  out  of  the  wagon  and  looked  about  her. 
The  smoke  crest,  black,  red-shot,  was  coming  close. 

96 


WILD  FIRE 

The  grass  here  would  carry  it.  Perhaps  yonder  on  the 
flint  ridge  where  the  cover  was  short — why  had  she 
not  thought  of  that  long  ago?  It  was  half  a  mile, 
and  no  sure  haven  then. 

She  ran,  her  shawl  drawn  about  her  head — ran  with 
long,  free  stride,  her  limbs  envigored  by  fear,  her  full- 
bosomed  body  heaving  chokingly.  The  smoke  was 
now  in  the  air,  and  up  the  unshorn  valley  came  the 
fire  remorselessly,  licking  up  the  under  lying  layer  of 
sun-cured  grass  which  a  winter's  snow  had  matted 
down. 

She  could  never  reach  the  ridge  now.  Her  over 
burdened  lungs  functioned  but  little.  The  world  went 
black,  with  many  points  of  red.  Everywhere  was  the 
odor  and  feel  of  smoke.  She  fell  and  gasped,  and  knew 
little,  cared  little  what  might  come.  The  elemental 
terror  at  last  had  caught  its  prey — soft,  young,  beau 
tiful  prey,  this  huddled  form,  a  bit  of  brown  and  gray, 
edged  with  white  of  wind-blown  skirt.  It  would  be  a 
sweet  morsel  for  the  flames. 

Along  the  knife-edged  flint  ridge  which  Molly  had 
tried  to  reach  there  came  the  pounding  of  hoofs, 
heavier  than  any  of  these  that  had  passed.  The  cattle 
were  stampeding  directly  down  wind  and  before  the 
fire.  Dully,  Molly  heard  the  lowing,  heard  the  far 
shouts  of  human  voices.  Then,  it  seemed  to  her,  she 
heard  a  rush  of  other  hoofs  coming  toward  her.  Yes, 
something  was  pounding  down  the  slope  toward  her 

97 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

wagon,  toward  her.     Buffalo,  she  thought,  not  know 
ing  the  buffalo  were  gone  from  that  region. 

But  it  was  not  the  buffalo,  nor  yet  the  frightened 
herd,  nor  yet  her  mules.  Out  of  the  smoke  curtain 
broke  a  rider,  his  horse  flat ;  a  black  horse  with  flying 
frontlet — she  knew  what  horse.  She  knew  what  man 
rode  him,  too,  black  with  smoke  as  he  was  now.  He 
swept  close  to  the  wagon  and  was  off.  Something 
flickered  there,  with  smoke  above  it,  beyond  the  wagon 
by  some  yards.  Then  he  was  in  saddle  and  racing 
again,  his  eyes  and  teeth  white  in  the  black  mask  of 
his  face. 

She  heard  no  call  and  no  command.  But  an  arm 
reached  down  to  hers,  swept  up — and  she  was  going 
onward,  the  horn  of  a  saddle  under  her,  her  body  held 
to  that  of  the  rider,  swung  sidewise.  The  horse  was 
guided  not  down  but  across  the  wind. 

Twice  and  three  times,  silent,  he  flung  her  off  and 
was  down,  kindling  his  little  back  fires — the  only  de 
fense  against  a  wildfire.  He  breathed  thickly,  makii^ 
sounds  of  rage. 

"Will  they  never  start  ?"  he  broke  out  at  last.  "The 
fools— the  fools!" 

But  by  now  it  was  too  late.  A  sudden  accession  •'..: 
the  force  of  the  wind  increased  the  speed  of  the  fn  ,. 
The  little  line  near  Molly's  wagon  spared  it,  but  caug] 
strength.  Could  she  have  seen  through  the  veils  oi 
smoke  she  would  have  seen  a  half  dozen  fires  this  side 
the  line  of  the  great  fire.  But  fire  is  fire. 


WILD  FIRE 

Again  he  was  in  saddle  and  had  her  against  his 
i  thigh,  his  body,  flung  any  way  so  she  came  with  the 
i  horse.  And  now  the  horse  swerved,  till  he  drove  in 
I  the  steel  again  and  again,  heading  him  not  away  from 
(the  fire  but  straight  into  it! 

Molly  felt  a  rush  of  hot  air;  surging,  actual  flame 
singed  the  ends  of  her  hair.  She  felt  his  hand  again 
and  again  sweep  over  her  skirts,  wiping  out  the  fire  as 
it  caught.  It  was  blackly  hot,  stifling — and  then  it 
was  past! 

Before  her  lay  a  wide  black  world.  Her  wagon 
stood,  even  its  white  top  spared  by  miracle  of  the  back 
fire.  But  beyond  came  one  more  line  of  smoke  and 
flame.  The  black  horse  neighed  now  in  the  agony  of 
his  hot  hoofs.  His  rider  swung  him  to  a  lower  level, 
v  here  under  the  tough  cover  had  lain  moist  ground, 
on  which  uncovered  water  now  glistened.  He  flung 
her  into  the  mire  of  it,  pulled  up  his  horse  there  and 
himself  lay  down,  full  length,  his  blackened  face  in  the 
moist  mud  above  which  still  smoked  stubbles  of  the 
flame-shorn  grass.  He  had  not  spoken  to  her,  nor  she 
to  him.  His  eyes  rested  on  the  singed  ends  of  her 
blown  hair,  her  charred  garments,  in  a  frowning  sym 
pathy  which  found  no  speech.  At  length  he  brought 
the  reins  of  his  horse  to  her,  flirting  up  the  singed 
ends  of  the  long  mane,  further  proof  of  their  narrow 
escape. 

"I  must  try  once  more,"  he  said.  "The  main  fire 
might  catch  the  wagon." 

99 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

He  made  off  afoot.  She  saw  him  start  a  dozen 
nucleuses  of  fires;  saw  them  advance  till  they  halted 
at  the  edge  of  the  burned  ground,  beyond  the  wagon, 
so  that  it  stood  safe  in  a  vast  black  island.  He  came 
to  her,  drove  his  scorched  boots  deep  as  he  could  into 
the  mud  and  sat  looking  up  the  valley  toward  the  emi 
grant  train.  An  additional  curtain  of  smoke  showed 
that  the  men  there  now  were  setting  out  back  fires  of 
their  own.  He  heard  her  voice  at  last: 

"It  is  the  second  time  you  have  saved  me — saved 
my  life,  I  think.  Why  did  you  come?" 

He  turned  to  her  as  she  sat  in  the  edge  of  the 
wallow,  her  face  streaked  with  smoke,  her  garments 
half  burned  off  her  limbs.  She  now  saw  his  hands, 
which  he  was  thrusting  out  on  the  mud  to  cool  them, 
and  sympathy  was  in  her  gaze  also. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  came,"  said  he.  "Didn't  you 
signal  for  me?  Jackson  told  me  you  could." 

"No,  I  had  no  hope.  I  meant  no  one.  It  was  only 
a  prayer." 

"It  carried  ten  miles.  We  were  all  back-firing.  It 
caught  in  the  sloughs — all  the  strips  of  old  grass.  I 
thought  of  your  camp,  of  you.  At  least  your  signal 
told  me  where  to  ride." 

At  length  he  waved  his  hand. 

"They're  safe  over  there,"  said  he,  "Think  of  the 
children!" 

"Yes,  and  you  gave  me  my  one  chance.     Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it  was  because  I  am  a 
100 


WILD  FIRE 

brute!"    The  bitterness  of  his  voice  was  plain. 

"Come,  we  must  go  to  the  wagons,"  said  Molly  at 
length,  and  would  have  risen. 

"No,  not  yet.  The  burned  ground  must  cool  before 
we  can  walk  on  it.  I  would  not  even  take  my  horse 
out  on  it  again."  He  lifted  a  foot  of  the  black  Span 
iard,  whose  muzzle  quivered  whimperingly.  "All  right, 
old  boy!"  he  said,  and  stroked  the  head  thrust  down 
to  him.  "It  might  have  been  worse." 

His  voice  was  so  gentle  that  Molly  Wingate  felt  a 
vague  sort  of  jealousy.  He  might  have  taken  her 
scorched  hand  in  his,  might  at  least  have  had  some 
thought  for  her  welfare.  He  did  speak  at  last  as  to 
that. 

"What's  in  your  wagon?"  he  asked.  "We  had  better 
go  there  to  wait.  Have  you  anything  along — oil,  flour, 
anything  to  use  on  burns?  You're  burned.  It  hurts 
me  to  see  a  woman  suffer." 

"Are  not  you  burned  too?" 

"Yes." 

"It  pains  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course." 

He  rose  and  led  the  way  over  the  damper  ground  to 
the  wagon,  which  stood  smoke-stained  but  not  charred, 
thanks  to  his  own  resourcefulness. 

Molly  climbed  up  to  the  seat,  and  rummaging  about 
found  a  jar  of  butter,  a  handful  of  flour. 

"Come  up  on  the  seat,"  said  she.  "This  is  better 
medicine  than  nothing." 

101 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

He  climbed  up  and  sat  beside  her.  She  frowned 
again  as  she  now  saw  how  badly  scorched  his  hands 
were,  his  neck,  his  face.  His  eyebrows,  caught  by  one 
wisp  of  flame,  were  rolled  up  at  the  ends,  whitened. 
One  cheek  was  a  dull  red. 

Gently,  without  asking  his  consent,  she  began  to  coat 
his  burned  skin  as  best  she  might  with  her  makeshift 
of  alleviation.  His  hand  trembled  under  hers. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "hold  still.    I  must  fix  your  hand 


some  more." 


She  still  bent  over,  gently,  delicately  touching  his 
flesh  with  hers.  And  then  all  in  one  mad,  unpremedi 
tated  instant  it  was  done! 

His  hand  caught  hers,  regardless  of  the  pain  to 
either.  His  arm  went  about  her,  his  lips  would  have 
sought  hers. 

It  was  done!    Now  he  might  repent. 

A  mad  way  of  wooing,  inopportune,  fatal  as  any 
method  he  possibly  could  have  found,  moreover  a  cruel, 
unseemly  thing  to  do,  here  and  with  her  situated  thus. 
But  it  was  done. 

Till  now  he  had  never  given  her  grounds  for  more 
than  guessing.  Yet  now  here  was  this! 

He  came  to  his  senses  as  she  thrust  him  away;  saw 
her  cheeks  whiten,  her  eyes  grow  wide. 

"Oh!"  she  said.     "Oh!  Oh!  Oh!" 

"Oh!"  whispered  Will  Banion  to  himself,  hoarsely. 

He  held  his  two  scorched  hands  each  side  her  face 

102 


WILD  FIRE 

as  she  drew  back,  sought  to  look  into  her  eyes,  so  that 
she  might  believe  either  his  hope,  his  despair  or  his  con 
trition. 

But  she  turned  her  eyes  away.     Only  he  could  hear 
'her  outraged  protest— "Oh!  Oh!  Oh!" 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE     KISS 

"TTT  WAS  the  wind!"    Will  Banion  exclaimed.    "It 

i      was  the  sky,  the  earth !    It  was  the  fire !    I  don't 

-*-  know  what  it  was !  I  swear  it  was  not  I  who  did 
it!  Don't  forgive  me,  but  don't  blame  me.  Molly! 
Molly! 

"It  had  to  be  sometime,"  he  went  on,  since  she  still 
drew  away  from  him.  "What  chance  have  I  had  to 
ask  you  before  now  ?  It's  little  I  have  to  offer  but  my 
love." 

"What  do  you  mean?  It  will  never  be  at  any  time !" 
said  Molly  Wingate  slowly,  her  hand  touching  his 
no  more. 

"What  do  you  yourself  mean?"  He  turned  to  her 
in  agony  of  soul.  "You  will  not  let  me  repent?  You 
will  not  give  me  some  sort  of  chance?" 

"No,"  she  said  coldly.  "You  have  had  chance  enough 
to  be  a  gentleman — as  much  as  you  had  when  you 
were  in  Mexico  with  other  women.  But  Major  Wil 
liam  Banion  falsified  the  regimental  accounts.  I  know 
that  too.  I  didn't — I  couldn't  believe  it — till  now." 

He  remained  dumb  under  this.  She  went  on  mer 
cilessly. 

"Oh,  yes,  Captain  Woodhull  told  us.  Yes,  he  showed 
104 


THE  KISS 

us  the  very  vouchers.  My  father  believed  it  of  you, 
but  I  didn't.  Now  I  do.  Oh,  fine!  And  you  an 
officer  of  our  Army!'* 

She  blazed  out  at  him  now,  her  temper  rising. 

"Chance?     What  more  chance  did  you  need?     No 
wonder  you  couldn't  love  a  girl — any  other  way  than 
this.     It  would  have  to  be  sometime,  you  say.     What 
>do  you  mean?    That  I'd  ever  marry  a  thief?" 

Still  he  could  not  speak.     The  fire  marks  showed 
i  livid  against  a  paling  cheek. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  saved  me — twice,  this  time  at 
imuch  risk,"  resumed  the  girl.    "Did  you  want  pay  so 
soon?    You'd — you'd " 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!" 

It  was  his  voice  that  now  broke  in.  He  could  not 
speak  at  all  beyond  the  exclamation  under  torture. 

"I  didn't  believe  that  story  about  you,"  she  added 
after  a  long  time.  "But  you  are  not  what  you  looked, 
not  what  I  thought  you  were.  So  what  you  say  must 
>e  sometime  is  never  going  to  be  at  all." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  about  me?"  demanded  Will 
Banion  savagely.  "Woodhull — did  he  say  that?" 

"I  have  told  you,  yes.  My  father  knew.  No  won 
der  he  didn't  trust  you.  How  could  he?" 

She  moved  now  as  though  to  leave  the  wagon,  but 
he  raised  a  hand. 

"Wait !"  said  he.  'Took  yonder !  You'd  not  have 
time  now  to  reach  camp." 

In  the  high  country  a  great  prairie  fire  usually  or 

105 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

quite  often  was  followed  by  a  heavy  rainstorm.  What 
Banion  now  indicated  was  the  approach  of  yet  another 
of  the  epic  phenomena  of  the  prairies,  as  rapid,  as 
colossal  and  as  merciless  as  the  fire  itself. 

On  the  western  horizon  a  low  dark  bank  of  clouds 
lay  for  miles,  piled,  serrated,  steadily  rising  opposite  to 
the  course  of  the  wind  that  had  driven  the  fire.  Along 
it  more  and  more  visibly  played  almost  incessant  sheet 
lightning,  broken  with  ripping  zigzag  flames.  A  hush 
had  fallen  close  at  hand,  for  now  even  the  frightened 
breeze  of  evening  had  fled.  Now  and  then,  at  first 
doubtful,  then  unmistakable  and  continuous,  came  the 
mutter  and  rumble  and  at  length  the  steady  roll  of 
thunder. 

They  lay  full  in  the  course  of  one  of  the  tremendous 
storms  of  the  high  country,  and  as  the  cloud  bank  rose 
and  came  on  swiftly,  spreading  its  flanking  wings  so 
that  nothing  might  escape,  the  spectacle  was  terrifying 
almost  as  much  as  that  of  the  fire,  for,  unprotected, 
as  they  were,  they  could  make  no  counter  battle  against 
the  storm. 

The    air    grew    supercharged    with    electricity.      Itj 
dripped,  literally,   from  the  barrel  of  Banion's  pistol 
when  he  took  it  from  its  holster  to  carry  it  to  the) 
wagon.    He  fastened  the  reins  of  his  horse  to  a  wheel! 
and  hastened  with  other  work.     A  pair  of  trail  ropes 
lay  in  the  wagon.    He  netted  them  over  the  wagon  top 
and  lashed  the  ends  to  the  wheels  to  make  the  top 
securer,  working  rapidly,  eyes  on  the  advancing  storm. 

1 06 


THE  KISS 

There  came  a  puff,  then  a  gust  of  wind.  The  sky 
blackened.  The  storm  caught  the  wagon  train  first. 
There  was  no  interval  at  all  between  the  rip  of  the 
lightning  and  the  crash  of  thunder  as  it  rolled  down  on 
the  clustered  wagons.  The  electricity  at  times  came 
not  in  a  sheet  or  a  ragged  bolt,  but  in  a  ball  of  fire, 
low  down,  close  to  the  ground,  exploding  with  giant 
detonations. 

Then  came  the  rain,  with  a  blanketing  rush  of  level 
wind,  sweeping  away  the  last  vestige  of  the  wastrel 
i  fires  of  the  emigrant  encampment.  An  instant  and 
<  every  human  being  in  the  train,  most  of  them  ill  de 
fended  by  their  clothing,  was  drenched  by  the  icy 
food.  One  moment  and  the  battering  of  hail  made 
climax  of  it  all.  The  groaning  animals  plunged  and 
fell  at  their  picket  ropes,  or  broke  and  fled  into  the 
open.  The  remaining  cattle  caught  terror,  and  since 
there  was  no  corral,  most  of  the  cows  and  oxen  stam 
peded  down  the  wind. 

The  canvas  of  the  covered  wagons  made  ill  defense. 
Many  of  them  were  stripped  off,  others  leaked  like 
sieves.  Mothers  sat  huddled  in  their  calicoes,  bending 
over  their  tow-shirted  young,  some  of  them  babes  in 
arms.  The  single  jeans  garments  of  the  boys  gave 
them  no  comfort.  Under  the  wagons  and  carts, 
wrapped  in  blankets  or  patched  quilts  whose  colors 
dripped,  they  crawled  and  sat  as  the  air  grew  strangely 
chill.  Only  wreckage  remained  when  they  saw  the 
storm  muttering  its  way  across  the  prairies,  having 

107 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

done  what  it  could  in  its  elemental  wrath  to  bar  the 
road  to  the  white  man. 

As  for  Banion  and  Molly,  they  sat  it  out  in  the 
light  wagon,  the  girl  wrapped  in  blankets,  Banion  much 
of  the  time  out  in  the  storm,  swinging  on  the  ropes  to 
keep  the  wagon  from  overturning.  He  had  no  appar 
ent  fear.  His  calm  assuaged  her  own  new  terrors.  In 
spite  of  her  bitter  arraignment,  she  was  glad  that  he 
was  here,  though  he  hardly  spoke  to  her  at  all. 

"Look !"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  drawing  back  the  flap 
of  the  wagon  cover.  "Look  at  the  rainbow !" 

Over  the  cloud  banks  of  the  rain-wet  sky  there  indeed 
now  was  flung  the  bow  of  promise.  But  this  titanic 
land  did  all  things  gigantically.  This  was  no  mere  pris 
matic  arch  bridging  the  clouds.  The  colors  all  were 
there,  yes,  and  of  an  unspeakable  brilliance  and  indi 
vidual  distinctness  in  the  scale ;  but  they  lay  like  a  vast 
painted  mist,  a  mural  of  some  celestial  artist  flung  en 
masse  against  the  curtain  of  the  night.  The  entire 
clouded  sky,  miles  on  untold  miles,  was  afire.  All  the 
opals  of  the  universe  were  melted  and  cast  into  a  tre 
mendous  picture  painted  by  the  Great  Spirit  of  the 
Plains. 

"Oh,  wonderful !"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "It  might 
be  the  celestial  city  in  the  desert,  promised  by  the  Mor 
mon  prophet !" 

"It  may  be  so  to  them.  May  it  be  so  to  us.  Blessed 
be  the  name  of  the  Lord  God  of  Hosts!"  said  Will 
Banion. 

108 


THE  KISS 

She  looked  at  him  suddenly,  strangely.  What  sort 
of  man  was  he,  after  all,  so  full  of  strange  contradic 
tions — a  savage,  a  criminal,  yet  reverent  and  devout? 

"Come,"  he  said,  "we  can  get  back  now,  and  you 
must  go.  They  will  think  you  are  lost." 

He  stepped  to  the  saddle  of  his  shivering  horse  and 
drew  off  the  poncho,  which  he  had  spread  above  the 
animal  instead  of  using  it  himself.  He  was  wet  to 
the  bone.  With  apology  he  cast  the  waterproof  over 
Molly's  shoulders,  since  she  now  had  discarded  her 
blankets.  He  led  the  way,  his  horse  following  them. 

They  walked  in  silence  in  the  deep  twilight  which 
began  to  creep  across  the  blackened  land.  All  through 
the  storm  he  had  scarcely  spoken  to  her,  and  he  spoke 
but  rarely  now.  He  was  no  more  than  guide.  But  as 
she  approached  safety  Molly  Wingate  began  to  reflect 
how  much  she  really  owed  this  man.  He  had  been -a 
pillar  of  strength,  elementally  fit  to  combat  all  the  ele 
ments,  else  she  had  perished. 

"Wait!" 

She  had  halted  at  the  point  of  the  last  hill  which 
lay  between  them  and  the  wagons.  They  could  hear 
the  wailing  of  the  children  close  at  hand.  He  turned 
inquiringly.  She  handed  back  the  poncho. 

"I  am  all  right  now.  You're  wet,  you're  tired,  you're 
burned  to  pieces.  Won't  you  come  on  in  ?" 

"Not  to-night!" 

But  still  she  hesitated.  In  her  mind  there  were  going 
109 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

on  certain  processes  she  could  not  have  predicted  an 
hour  earlier. 

"I  ought  to  thank  you/*  she  said.    "I  do  thank  you." 

His  utter  silence  made  it  hard  for  her.  He  could 
see  her  hesitation,  which  made  it  hard  for  him,  covet 
ing  sight  of  her  always,  loath  to  leave  her. 

Now  a  sudden  wave  of  something,  a  directness  and 
frankness  born  in  some  way  in  this  new  world  apart 
from  civilization,  like  a  wind-blown  flame,  irrespon 
sible  and  irresistible,  swept  over  Molly  Wingate's  soul 
as  swiftly,  as  unpremeditatedly  as  it  had  over  his.  She 
was  a  young  woman  fit  for  love,  disposed  for  love,  at 
the  age  for  love.  Now,  to  her  horror,  the  clasp  of  this 
man's  arm,  even  when  repelled  in  memory,  returned, 
remained  in  memory!  She  was  frightened  that  it  still 
remained — frightened  at  her  own  great  curiousness. 

" About — that" — he  knew  what  she  meant — "I  don't 
want  you  to  think  anything  but  the  truth  of  me.  If 
you  have  deceived  people,  I  don't  want  to  deceive  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  He  was  a  man  of  not  very 
many  words. 

"About— that!" 

"You  said  it  could  never  be." 

"No.  If  it  could,  I  would  not  be  stopping  here  now 
to  say  so  much." 

He  stepped  closer,  frowning. 

"What  is  it  you  are  saying  then — that  a  man's  a 
worse  brute  when  he  goes  mad,  as  I  did?" 

no 


THE  KISS 

"I  expect  not,"  said  Molly  Wingate  queerly.  "It  is 
very  far,  out  here.  It's  some  other  world,  I  believe. 
And  I  suppose  men  have  kissed  girls.  I  suppose  no 
girl  ever  was  married  who  was  not  ever  kissed." 

"What  are  you  saying?" 

"I  said  I  wanted  you  to  know  the  truth  about  a 
woman — about  me.  That's  just  because  it's  not  ever 
going  to  be  between  us.  It  can't  be,  because  of  that 
other  matter  in  Mexico.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that, 
I  suppose  after  a  time  I  wouldn't  have  minded  what 
you  did  back  there.  I  might  have  kissed  you.  It  must 
be  terrible  to  feel  as  you  feel  now,  so  ashamed.  But 
after  all " 

"It  was  criminal!"  he  broke  out.  "But  even  crim-* 
inals  are  loved  by  women.  They  follow  them  to  jail, 
to  the  gallows.  They  don't  mind  what  the  man  is — 
they  love  him,  they  forgive  him.  They  stand  by  him 
to  the  very  end!" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  many  a  girl  loves  a  man  she  knows 
she  never  can  marry.  Usually  she  marries  someone 
else.  But  kissing!  That's  terrible!" 

"Yes.  But  you  will  not  let  me  make  it  splendid 
and  not  terrible.  You  say  it  never  can  be — that  means 
we've  got  to  part.  Well,  how  can  I  forget?" 

"I  don't  suppose  you  can.  I  don't  suppose  that — » 
that  I  can!" 

"What  are  you  going  to  say?  Don't!  Oh,  please 
don't!" 

in 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

But  she  still  went  on,  strangely,  not  in  the  least 
understanding  her  own  swift  change  of  mood,  her  own 
intent  with  him,  vis-a-vis,  here  in  the  wilderness. 

"While  we  were  walking  down  here  just  now,"  said 
she,  "somehow  it  all  began  to  seem  not  so  wrong.  It 
only  seemed  to  stay  wrong  for  you  to  have  deceived 
me  about  yourself — what  you  really  were — when  you 
were  in  the  Army.  I  could  maybe  forgive  you  up  to 
that  far,  for  you  did — for  men  are — well,  men.  But 
about  that  other — you  knew  all  the  time  we  couldn't 
— couldn't  ever — I'd  never  marry  a  thief." 

The  great  and  wistful  regret  of  her  voice  was  a 
thing  not  to  be  escaped.  She  stood,  a  very  splendid 
figure,  clean  and  marvelous  of  heart  as  she  was  be 
grimed  and  bedraggled  of  body  now,  her  great  vital 
force  not  abated  by  what  she  had  gone  through.  She 
spread  her  hands  just  apart  and  looked  at  him  in  what 
she  herself  felt  was  to  be  the  last  meeting  of  their 
lives;  in  which  she  could  afford  to  reveal  all  her  soul 
for  once  to  a  man,  and  then  go  about  a  woman's  busi 
ness  of  living  a  life  fed  on  the  husks  of  love  given  her 
by  some  other  man. 

He  knew  that  he  had  seen  one  more  miracle.  But, 
chastened  now,  he  could,  he  must,  keep  down  his  own 
eager  arms.  He  heard  her  speak  once  more,  her  voice 
like  some  melancholy  bell  of  vespers  of  a  golden 
evening. 

"Oh,  Will  Banion,  how  could  you  take  away  a  girfs 
heart  and  leave  her  miserable  all  her  life?" 

112 


THE  KISS 

The  cry  literally  broke  from  her.  It  seemed  in  her 
own  ears  the  sudden  voice  of  some  other  woman  speak 
ing — some  unaccountable,  strange  woman  whom  she 
never  had  seen  or  known  in  all  her  life. 

"Your — heart?"  he  whispered,  now  close  to  her  in 
the  dusk.  "You  were  not — you  did  not — you " 

But  he  choked.  She  nodded,  not  brazenly  or  crudely 
or  coarsely,  not  even  bravely,  but  in  utter  simplicity. 
For  the  time  she  was  wholly  free  of  woman  coquetry. 
It  was  as  though  the  elements  had  left  her  also  ele 
mental.  Her  words  now  were  of  the  earth,  the  air, 
the  fire,  the  floods  of  life. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  will  tell  you  now,  because  of 
what  you  have  done  for  me.  If  you  gave  me  life, 
why  shouldn't  I  give  you  love — if  so  I  could?" 

"Love?    Give  me  love?" 

"Yes !  I  believe  I  was  going  to  love  you,  until  now, 
although  I  had  promised  him — you  know — Captain 
Woodhull.  Oh,  you  see,  I  understand  a  little  of  what  it 
was  to  you — what  made  you "  She  spoke  discon 
nectedly.  "I  believe — I  believe  I'd  not  have  cared.  I 
believe  I  could  follow  a  man  to  the  gallows.  Now  I 
will  not,  because  you  didn't  tell  me  you  were  a  thief. 
I  can't  trust  you.  But  I'll  kiss  you  once  for  good-by. 
I'm  sorry.  I'm  so  sorry." 

Being  a  man,  he  never  fathomed  her  mind  at  all. 
But  being  a  man,  slowly,  gently,  he  took  her  in  his  arms, 
drew  her  tight.  Long,  long  it  was  till  their  lips  met — 
and  long  then.  But  he  heard  her  whisper  "Good-by," 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

saw  her  frank  tears,  felt  her  slowly,  a  little  by  a  little, 
draw  away  from  him. 

"Good-by,"  she  said.  "Good-by.  I  would  not  dare, 
any  more,  ever  again.  Oh,  Will  Banion,  why  did  you 
take  away  my  heart?  I  had  but  one!" 

"It  is  mine !"  he  cried  savagely.  "No  other  man  in 
all  the  world  shall  ever  have  it!  Molly!" 

But  she  now  was  gone. 

He  did  not  know  how  long  he  stood  alone,  his  head 
bowed  on  his  saddle.  The  raucous  howl  of  a  great 
gray  wolf  near  by  spelled  out  the  lonesome  tragedy  of 
his  future  life  for  him. 

Quaint  and  sweet  philosopher,  and  bold  as  she  but 
now  had  been  in  one  great  and  final  imparting  of  her 
real  self,  Molly  Wingate  was  only  a  wet,  weary  and 
bedraggled  maid  when  at  length  she  entered  the  deso 
late  encampment  which  stood  for  home.  She  found 
her  mother  sitting  on  a  box  under  a  crude  awning,  and 
cast  herself  on  her  knees,  her  head  on  that  ample  bosom 
that  she  had  known  as  haven  in  her  childhood.  She 
wept  now  like  a  little  child. 

"It's  bad!"  said  stout  Mrs.  Wingate,  not  knowing. 
"But  you're  back  and  alive.  It  looks  like  we're  wrecked 
and  everything  lost,  and  we  come  nigh  about  getting 
all  burned  up,  but  you're  back  alive  to  your  ma !  Now, 
now!" 

That  night  Molly  turned  on  a  sodden  pallet  which 
she  had  made  down  beside  her  mother  in  the  great 


114 


THE  KISS 

wagon.    But  she  slept  ill.    Over  and  over  to  her  lips 
rose  the  same  question : 

"Oh,  Will  Banion,  Will  Banion,  why  did  you  take 
away  my  heart?'* 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE     DIVISION 

THE  great  wagon  train  of  1848  lay  banked 
along  the  Vermilion  in  utter  and  abject  con 
fusion.  Organization  there  now  was  none. 
But  for  Banion's  work  with  the  back  fires  the  entire 
train  would  have  been  wiped  out.  The  effects  of  the 
storm  were  not  so  capable  of  evasion.  Sodden, 
wretched,  miserable,  chilled,  their  goods  impaired,  their 
cattle  stampeded,  all  sense  of  gregarious  self-reliance 
gone,  two  hundred  wagons  were  no  more  than  two 
hundred  individual  units  of  discontent  and  despair. 
So  far  as  could  be  prophesied  on  facts  apparent,  the 
journey  out  to  Oregon  had  ended  in  disaster  almost 
before  it  was  well  begun. 

Bearded  men  at  smoking  fires  looked  at  one  another 
in  silence,  or  would  not  look  at  all.  Elan,  morale, 
esprit  de  corps  were  gone  utterly. 

Stout  Caleb  Price  walked  down  the  wagon  lines, 
passing  fourscore  men  shaking  in  their  native  agues, 
not  yet  conquered.  Women,  pale,  gaunt,  grim,  looked 
at  him  from  limp  sunbonnets  whose  stays  had  been 
half  dissolved.  Children  whimpered.  Even  the  dogs, 
curled  nose  to  tail  under  the  wagons,  growled  surlily. 

116 


THE  DIVISION 

But  Caleb  Price  found  at  last  the  wagon  of  the  bugler 
who  had  been  at  the  wars  and  shook  him  out. 

"Sound,  man!"  said  Caleb  Price.  "Play  up  Oh, 
Susannah !  Then  sound  the  Assembly.  We've  got  to 
have  a  meeting." 

They  did  have  a  meeting.  Jesse  Wingate  scented 
mutiny  and  remained  away. 

"There's  no  use  talking,  men,"  said  Caleb  Price, 
"no  use  trying  to  fool  ourselves.  We're  almost  done, 
the  way  things  are.  I  like  Jess  Wingate  as  well  as 
any  man  I  ever  knew,  but  Jess  Wingate' s  not  the  man. 
What  shall  we  do?" 

He  turned  to  Hall,  but  Hall  shook  his  head;  to 
Kelsey,  but  Kelsey  only  laughed. 

"I  could  get  a  dozen  wagons  through,  maybe,"  said 
he.  "Here's  two  hundred.  Woodhull's  the  man,  but 
Woodhull's  gone — lost,  I  reckon,  or  maybe  killed  and 
lying  out  somewhere  on  these  prairies.  You  take  it, 
Gale." 

Price  considered  for  a  time. 

"No,"  said  he  at  length.  "It's  no  time  for  one  of 
us  to  take  on  what  may  be  done  better  by  someone 
else,  because  our  women  and  children  are  at  stake.  The 
very  best  man's  none  too  good  for  this  job,  and  the 
more  experience  he  has  the  better.  The  man  who 
thinks  fastest  and  clearest  at  the  right  time  is  the  man 
we  want,  and  the  man  we'd  follow — the  only  man. 
Who'll  he  be?" 

"Oh,  I'll  admit  Banion  had  the  best  idea  of  crossing 
117 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

the  Kaw,"  said  Kelsey.    "He  got  his  own  people  over, 
too,  somehow." 

"Yes,  and  they're  together  now  ten  miles  below  us. 
And  Molly  Wingate — she  was  caught  out  with  her 
team  by  the  fire — says  it  was  Banion  who  started  the 
back-fire.  That  saved  his  train  and  ours.  Ideas  that 
come  too  late  are  no  good.  We  need  some  man  with 
the  right  ideas  at  the  right  time." 

"You  think  it's  Banion?"  Hall  spoke. 

"I  do  think  it's  Banion.  I  don't,  see  how  it  can  be 
anyone  else." 

"Woodhull'd  never  stand  for  it."     - 

"He  isn't  here." 

"Wingate  won't." 

"He'll  have  to." 

The  chief  of  mutineers,  a  grave  and  bearded  man, 
waited  for  a  time. 

"This  is  a  meeting  of  the  train,"  said  he.  "In  our 
government  the  majority  rules.  Is  there  any  motion 
on  this?" 

Silence.  Then  rose  Hall  of  Ohio,  slowly,  a  solid 
man,  with  three  wagons  of  his  own. 

"I've  been  against  the  Missouri  outfit,"   said  he.   \ 
"They're  a  wild  bunch,  with  no  order  or  discipline  to    I 
them.    They're  not  all  free-soilers,  even  if  they're  go-   j 
ing  out  to  Oregon.    But  if  one  man  can  handle  them, 
he  can  handle  us.    An  Army  man  with  a  Western  ex-    I 
perience — who'll  it  be  unless  it  is  their  man?     So. 
Mister  Chairman,  I  move  for  a  committee  of  three, 

118 


THE  DIVISION 

yourself  to  be  one,  to  ride  down  and  ask  the  Mis- 
sour  ians  to  join  on  again,  all  under  Major  Banion." 

"I'll  have  to  second  that,"  said  a  voice.  Price  saw 
a  dozen  nods.  "You've  heard  it,  men,"  said  he.  "All 
in  favor  rise  up." 

They  stood,  witH  not  many  exceptions — rough-clad, 
hard-headed,  hard-handed  men  of  the  nation's  van 
guard.  Price  looked  them  over  soberly. 

"You  see  the  vote,  men,"  said  he.  "I  wish  Jess  had 
come,  but  he  didn't.  Who'll  be  the  man  to  ride  down? 
Wingate?" 

"He  wouldn't  go,"  said  Kelsey.  "He's  got  some 
thing  against  Banion;  says  he's  not  right  on  his  war 
record — something " 

"He's  right  on  his  train  record  this  far,"  commented 
Price.  "We're  not  electing  a  Sabbath-school  superin 
tendent  now,  but  a  train  captain  who'll  make  these 
wagons  cover  twelve  miles  a  day,  average. 

"Hall,  you  and  Kelsey  saddle  up  and  ride  down  with 
me.  We'll  see  what  we  can  do.  One  thing  sure, 
something  has  got  to  be  done,  or  we  might  as  well  turn 
back.  For  one,  I'm  not  used  to  that." 

They  did  saddle  and  ride — to  find  the  Missouri 
column  coming  up  with  intention  of  pitching  below, 
at  the  very  scene  of  the  massacre,  which  was  on  the 
usual  Big  Vermilion  ford,  steep-banked  on  either  side, 
but  with  hard  bottom. 

Ahead  of  the  train  rode  two  men  at  a  walk,  the 
scout  Jackson,  and  the  man  they  sought.  They  spied 

,119 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

him  as  the  man  on  the  black  Spanish  horse,  found 
him  a  pale  and  tired  young  man,  who  apparently  had 
slept  as  ill  as  they  themselves.  But  in  straight  and 
manful  fashion  they  told  him  their  errand. 

The  pale  face  of  Will  Banion  flushed,  even  with 
the  livid  scorch  marks  got  in  the  prairie  fire  the  day 
before.  He  considered. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  after  a  time,  "you  don't  know 
what  you  are  asking  of  me.  It  would  be  painful  for 
me  to  take  that  work  on  now." 

"It's  painful  for  us  to  see  our  property  lost  and  our 
families  set  afoot,"  rejoined  Caleb  Price.  "It's  not 
pleasant  for  me  to  do  this.  But  it's  no  question,  Major 
Banion,  what  you  or  I  find  painful  or  pleasant.  The 
question  is  on  the  women  and  children.  You  know 
that  very  well." 

"I  do  know  it — yes.  But  you  have  other  men. 
Where's  Woodhull?" 

"We  don't  know.  We  think  the  Pawnees  got  him 
among  the  others." 

"Jackson" — Banion  turned  to  his  companion — ! 
"we've  got  to  make  a  look-around  for  him.  He's 
probably  across  the  river  somewhere." 

"Like  enough,"  rejoined  the  scout.  "But  the  first| 
thing  is  for  all  us  folks  to  git  acrost  the  river  too.  Let 
him  go  to  hell." 

"We  want  you,  Major,"  said  Hall  quietly,  and  evei 
Kelsey  nodded. 

"What  shall  I  do,  Jackson?"  demanded  Banion. 
1 20 


THE  DIVISION 

"Fly  inter  hit,  Will,"  replied  that  worthy.  "Least 
ways,  take  hit  on  long  enough  so's  to  git  them  acrost 
an'  help  git  their  cattle  together.  Ye  couldn't  git  Win- 
gate  to  work  under  ye  no  ways.  But  mebbe-so  we  can 
show  'em  fer  a  day  er  so  how  Old  Missoury  gits  acrost 
a  country.  Uh-huh?" 

Again  Banion  considered,  pondering  many  things 
of  which  none  of  these  knew  anything  at  all.  At 
length  he  drew  aside  with  the  men  of  the  main  train. 

"Park  our  wagons  here,  Bil/,"  he  said.  "See  that 
they  are  well  parked,  too.  Get  out  your  guards.  I'll 
go  up  and  see  what  we  can  do.  We'll  all  cross  here. 
Have  your  men  get  all  the  trail  ropes  out  and  lay  in  a 
lot  of  dry  cottonwood  logs.  We'll  have  to  raft  some 
of  the  stuff  over.  See  if  there's  any  wild  grapevines 
along  the  bottoms.  They'll  help  hold  the  logs.  So 
long." 

He  turned,  and  with  the  instinct  of  authority  rode 
just  a  half  length  ahead  of  the  others  on  the  return. 

Jesse  Wingate,  a  sullen  and  discredited  Achilles, 
held  to  his  tent,  and  Molly  did  as  much,  her  stout 
hearted  and  just-minded  mother  being  the  main  source 
of  Wingate  news.  Banion  kept  as  far  away  from 
them  as  possible,  but  had  Jed  sent  for. 

"Jed,"  said  he,  "first  thing,  you  get  your  boys  to 
gether  and  go  after  the  cattle.  Most  of  them  went 
downstream  with  the  wind.  The  hobbled  stuff  didn't 
come  back  down  the  trail  and  must  be  below  there  too. 
The  cows  wouldn't  swim  the  big  river  on  a  run.  If 

121 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

there's  rough  country,  with  any  shelter,  they'd  like 
enough  begin  to  mill — it  might  be  five  miles,  ten — I 
can't  guess.  You  go  find  out. 

"Now,  you  others,  first  thing,  get  your  families  all 
out  in  the  sun.  Spread  out  the  bedclothes  and  get  them 
dried.  Build  fires  and  cook  your  best  right  away — 
have  the  people  eat.  Get  that  bugle  going  and  play 
something  fast — Sweet  Hour  of  Prayer  is  for  evening, 
not  now.  Give  'em  Reveille,  and  then  the  cavalry 
charge.  Play  Susannah. 

"I'm  going  to  ride  the  edge  of  the  burning  to  look 
for  loose  stock.  You  others  get  a  meal  into  these 
people — coffee,  quinine,  more  coffee.  Then  hook  up 
all  the  teams  you  can  and  move  down  to  the  ford.  We'll 
be  on  the  Platte  and  among  the  buffalo  in  a  week  or 
ten  days.  Nothing  can  stop  us.  All  you  need  is  just 
a  little  more  coffee  and  a  little  more  system,  and  then 
a  good  deal  more  of  both. 

"Now's  a  fine  time  for  this  train  to  shake  into  place," 
he  added.  "You,  Price,  take  your  men  and  go  down 
the  lines.  Tell  your  kin  folk  and  families  and  friends 
and  neighbors  to  make  bands  and  hang  together.  Let 
'em  draw  cuts  for  place  if  they  like,  but  stick  where 
they  go.  We  can't  tell  how  the  grass  will  be  on  ahead, 
and  we  may  have  to  break  the  train  into  sections  on 
the  Platte;  but  we'll  break  it  ourselves,  and  not  see  it 
fall  apart  or  fight  apart.  So  ?" 

He  wheeled  and  went  away  at  a  trot.  All  he  had 
given  them  was  the  one  thing  they  lacked. 

122  ' 


THE  DIVISION 

The  Wingate  wagons  came  in  groups  and  halted  at 
the  river  bank,  where  the  work  of  rafting  and  wagon 
boating  went  methodically  forward.  Scores  of  in 
dividual  craft,  tipsy  and  risky,  two  or  three  logs  lashed 
together,  angled  across  and  landed  far  below.  Horse 
men  swam  across  with  lines  and  larger  rafts  were 
steadied  fore  and  aft  with  ropes  snubbed  around  tree 
trunks  on  either  bank.  Once  started,  the  resourceful 
pioneer  found  a  dozen  ways  to  skin  his  cat,  as  one 
man  phrased  it,  and  presently  the  falling  waters  per 
mitted  swimming  and  fording  the  stock.  It  all  seemed 
ridiculously  simple  and  ridiculously  cheerful. 

Toward  evening  a  great  jangling  of  bells  and  shout 
ing  of  young  captains  announced  the  coming  of  a  great 
band  of  the  stampeded  livestock — cattle,  mules  and 
horses  mixed.  Afar  came  the  voice  of  Jed  Wingate 
singing,  "Oh,  then  Susannah,"  and  urging  Susannah 
to  have  no  concern. 

But  Banion,  aloof  and  morose,  made  his  bed  that 
night  apart  even  from  his  own  train.  He  had  not  seen 
Wingate — did  not  see  him  till  the  next  day,  noon, 
when  he  rode  up  and  saluted  the  former  leader,  who  sat 
on  his  own  wagon  seat  and  not  in  saddle. 

"My  people  are  all  across,  Mr.  Wingate,"  he  said, 
"and  the  last  of  your  wagons  will  be  over  by  dark  and 
straightened  out.  I'm  parked  a  mile  ahead." 

"You  are  parked?  I  thought  you  were  elected — by 
my  late  friends — to  lead  this  whole  train." 

123 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

He  spoke  bitterly  and  with  a  certain  contempt  that 
made  Banion  color. 

"No.  We  can  travel  apart,  though  close.  Do  you 
want  to  go  ahead,  or  shall  I?" 

"As  you  like.    The  country's  free." 

"It's  not  free  for  some  things,  Mr.  Wingate,"  re 
joined  the  younger  man  hotly.  "You  can  lead  or  not, 
as  you  like;  but  I'll  not  train  up  with  a  man  who  thinks 
of  me  as  you  do.  After  this  think  what  you  like,  but 
don't  speak  any  more." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"You  know  very  well.  You've  believed  another 
man's  word  about  my  personal  character.  It's  gone 
far  enough  and  too  far." 

"The  other  man  is  not  here.     He  can't  face  you." 

"No,  not  now.  But  if  he's  on  earth  he'll  face  me 
sometime." 

Unable  to  control  himself  further,  Banion  wheeled 
and  galloped  away  to  his  own  train. 

"You  ask  if  we're  to  join  in  with  the  Yankees,"  he 
flared  out  to  Jackson.  "No!  We'll  camp  apart  and 
train  apart.  I  won't  go  on  with  them." 

"Well,"  said  the  scout,  "I  didn't  never  think  we 
would,  er  believe  ye  could;  not  till  they  git  in  trouble 
agin — er  till  a  certain  light  wagon  an'  mules  throws  in 
with  us,  huh?" 

"You'll  say  no  more  of  that,  Jackson!     But  one 
124 


THE  DIVISION 

thing :  you  and  I  have  got  to  ride  and  see  if  we  can  get 
any  trace  of  Woodhull." 

"Like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack,  an'  a  damn 
bad  needle  at  that,"  was  the  old  man's  comment. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE    PLAINS 

"  f\  N  to  the  Platte!    The  buffalo!"  New  cheer 
§        1    seemed  to  come  to  the  hearts  of  the  emi- 
^-^    grants  now,  and  they  forgot  bickering.    The 
main  train  ground  grimly  ahead,  getting  back,  if  not 
all  its  egotism,  at  least  more  and  more  of  its  self- 
reliance.    By  courtesy,  Wingate  still  rode  ahead,  though 
orders  came  now  from  a  joint  council  of  his  leaders, 
since  Banion  would  not  take  charge. 

The  great  road  to  Oregon  was  even  now  not  a  trail 
but  a  road,  deep  cut  into  the  soil,  though  no  wheeled 
traffic  had  marked  it  until  within  the  past  five  years.  A 
score  of  paralled  paths  it  might  be  at  times,  of  tentative 
location  along  a  hillside  or  a  marshy  level;  but  it  was 
for  the  most  part  a  deep-cut,  unmistakable  road  from 
which  it  had  been  impossible  to  wander.  At  times  it  lay 
worn  into  the  sod  a  half  foot,  a  foot  in  depth.  Some 
times  it  followed  the  ancient  buffalo  trails  to  water — 
the  first  roads  of  the  Far  West,  quickly  seized  on  by 
hunters  and  engineers — or  again  it  transected  these, 
hanging  to  the  ridges  after  frontier  road  fashion, 
heading  out  for  the  proved  fords  of  the  greater  streams. 
Always  the  wheel  marks  of  those  who  had  gone  ahead 
in  previous  years,  the  continuing  thread  of  the  trail 

126 


THE  PLAINS 

itself,  worn  in  by  trader  and  trapper  and  Mormon  and 
Oregon  or  California  man,  gave  hope  and  cheer  to 
these  who  followed  with  the  plow. 

Stretching  out,  closing  up,  almost  inch  by  inch,  like 
some  giant  measuring  worm  in  its  slow  progress,  the 
train  held  on  through  a  vast  and  stately  landscape, 
which  some  travelers  had  called  the  Eden  of  America, 
such  effect  was  given  by  the  series  of  altering  scenes. 
Small  imagination,  indeed,  was  needed  to  picture  here 
a  long-established  civilization,  although  there  was  not 
?  habitation.  They  were  beyond  organized  society  and 
beyond  the  law. 

Game  became  more  abundant,  wild  turkeys  still  ap 
peared  in  the  timbered  creek  bottoms.  Many  elk  were 
seen,  more  deer  and  very  many  antelope,  packed  in 
northward  by  the  fires.  A  number  of  panthers  and 
giant  gray  wolves  beyond  counting  kept  the  hunters 
always  excited.  The  wild  abundance  of  an  unexhausted 
Nature  offered  at  every  hand.  The  sufficiency  of  life 
brought  daily  growth  in  the  self-reliance  which  had 
left  them  for  a  time. 

The  wride  timberlands,  the  broken  low  hills  of  the 
green  prairie  at  length  began  to  give  place  to  a  steadily 
rising  inclined  plane.  The  soil  became  less  black  and 
heavy,  with  more  sandy  ridges.  The  oak  and  hickory, 
stout  trees  of  their  forefathers,  passed,  and  the  cot- 
tonwoods  appeared.  After  they  had  crossed  the  ford 
of  the  Big  Blue — a  hundred  yards  of  racing  water — 
they  passed  what  is  now  the  line  between  Kansas  and 

127 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Nebraska,  and  followed  up  the  Little  Blue,  beyond 
whose  ford  the  trail  left  these  quieter  river  valleys  and 
headed  out  over  a  high  table-land  in  a  keen  straight 
flight  over  the  great  valley  of  the  Platte,  the  highway  to 
the  Rockies. 

Now  the  soil  was  sandier;  the  grass  changed  yet 
again.  They  had  rolled  under  wheel  by  now  more  than 
one  hundred  different  varieties  of  wild  grasses.  The 
vegetation  began  to  show  the  growing  altitude.  The 
cactus  was  s«en  now  and  then.  On  the  far  horizon 
the  wavering  mysteries  of  the  mirage  appeared,  mar 
velous  in  deceptiveness,  mystical,  alluring,  the  very 
spirits  of  the  Far  West,  appearing  to  move  before 
their  eyes  in  giant  pantomime.  They  were  passing 
from  the  Prairies  to  the  Plains. 

Shouts  and  cheers  arose  as  the  word  passed  back 
that  the  sand  hills  known  as  the  Coasts  of  the  Platte 
were  in  sight.  Some  mothers  told  their  children  they 
were  now  almost  to  Oregon.  The  whips  cracked  more 
loudly,  the  tired  teams,  tongues  lolling,  quickened  their 
pace  as  they  struck  the  down-grade  gap  leading  through 
the  sand  ridges. 

Two  thouand  Americans,  some  of  them  illiterate  and 
ignorant,  all  of  them  strong,  taking  with  them  law, 
order,  society,  the  church,  the  school,  anew  were  stag 
ing  the  great  drama  of  human  life,  act  and  scene  and 
episode,  as  though  upon  some  great  moving  platform 
drawn  by  invisible  cables  beyond  the  vast  proscenium 
of  the  hills. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  GREAT  ENCAMPMENT 


'%_  <"':"-''-.>ct^i.  ^^ 

long  columns  of  the  great  wagon  train 
pugh  the  screening  sa%d  hills  there 
was  clisMgsed  a  vast  and  splendid  panorama. 
The  valley  of  the  !%tte,  lay  miles  wide,  green  in  the  -full 
covering  of  spring.  "^Sfa.  crooked  and  broken  thread  of 
timber  growth  appeareol^a^king  the  moister  soil  and 
outlining  the  general  course  of  the  shallow  stream, 
whose  giant  cotton  woods  Were  dwarfed  now  by  the 
distances.  In  between,  and  for,  miles  tip  and  down  the 
flat  expanse,  there  rose  the  blue  smokes  of  countless 
camp  fires,,  each  showing  the,  location  pf  some  white- 
topped  ship  of  the  Plains|  Black  specks,  grouped  here 
and  there,  proved  the  presence  of  t|ie  livestock  under 
herd. 

Over  all  shone  a  pleasant  sun^.  INow  and  again 
the  dark  shadow  of  a  moVing  cloudy  passed  over  the 
flat  valley,  softening  its  hig|i  lights  ffe  the  time.  At 
times,  as  the  sun  shone  full  arid  strong,  the  faint  loom, 
of  the  mirage  added  the  last \touch  of  mysticism,  the 
figures  of  the  wagons  rising  high,  multiplied  many- 
fold,  with  giant  creatures  passing  between,  so  that  the 
whole  seemed,  indeed,  some  wild  phantasmagoria  of 
the  desert. 

129 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Look!"  exclaimed  Wingate,  pulling  up  his  horse. 
"Look,  Caleb,  the  Northern  train  is  in  and  waiting 
for  us!  A  hundred  wagons!  They're  camped  oved 
the  whole  bend." 

The  sight  of  this  vast  re-enforcement  brought  heari 
to  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  all  the  advancing 
train.  Now,  indeed,  Oregon  was  sure.  There  would 
be,  all  told,  four  hundred — five  hundred — above  shi 
hundred  wagons.  Nothing  could  withstand  them 
They  were  the  same  as  arrived ! 

As  the  great  trains  blended  before  the  final  emparkj 
ment  men  and  women  who  had  never  met  before  shoolj 
hands,  talked  excitedly,  embraced,  even  wept,  such  was 
their  joy  in  meeting  their  own  kind.  Soon  the  vasj 
valley  at  the  foot  of  the  Grand  Island  of  the  Platte— 
ninety  miles  in  length  it  then  was — became  one  vasj 
bivouac  whose  parallel  had  not  been  seen  in  all  thd 
world. 

Even  so,  the  Missouri  column  held  back,  an  hou| 
or  two  later  on  the  trail.  Banion,  silent  and  morosej 
still  rode  ahead,  but  all  the  flavor  of  his  adventure  ouj 
to  Oregon  had  left  him — indeed,  the  very  savor  of  lif  j 
itself.  He  looked  at  his  arms,  empty;  touched  his  lipa 
where  once  her  kiss  had  been,  so  infinitely  and  iiJ 
eradicably  sweet.  Why  should  he  go  on  to  Oregoij 
now? 

As  they  came  down  through  the  gap  in  the  Coasts! 
looking  out  over  the  Grand  Island  and  the  great  enj 
campment,  Jackson  pulled  up  his  horse. 

130 


THE  GREAT  ENCAMPMENT 

"Look !    Someone  comin'  out !" 

Banion  sat  his  horse  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  rider, 
vho  soon  cut  down  the  intervening  distance  until  he 
•ould  well  be  noted.  A  tall,  spare  man  he  was,  middle- 
,ged,  of  long  lank  hair  and  gray  stubbled  beard,  and 
*yes  overhung  by  bushy  brows.  He  rode  an  Indian 
*ad  saddle,  without  stirrups,  and  was  clad  in  the  old 
lostume  of  the  hunter  of  the  Far  West — fringed  shirt 
ind  leggings  of  buckskin.  Moccasins  made  his  foot- 
covering,  though  he  wore  a  low,  wide  hat.  As  he  came 
>n  at  speed,  guiding  his  wiry  mount  with  a  braided 
looped  around  the  lower  jaw,  he  easily  might 
lave  been  mistaken  for  a  savage  himself  had  he  not 
'.ome  alone  and  from  such  company  as  that  ahead.  He 
erked  up  his  horse  close  at  hand  and  sat  looking  at 
the  newcomers,  with  no  salutation  beyond  a  short 
ji'How!" 

Banion  met  him. 

"We're  the  Westport  train.  Do  you  come  from 
'he  Bluffs?  Are  you  for  Oregon?" 

"Yes.  I  seen  ye  comin'.  Thought  I'd  projeck  some. 
jvVTio's  that  back  of  ye?"  He  extended  an  imperative 
i  skinny  finger  toward  Jackson.  "If  it  hain't  Bill  Jack- 
>on  hit's  his  ghost!" 

"The  same  to  you,  Jim.    How !" 

The  two  shook  hands  without  dismounting.  Jack- 
5on  turned  grinning  to  Banion. 

"Major,"  said  he,  "this  is  Jim  Bridger,  the  oldest 
scout  in  the  Rockies,  an'  that  knows  more  West  than 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

ary  man  this  side  the  Missoury.     I  never  thought  toj 
see  him  agin,  sartain  not  this  far  east." 

"Ner  me,"  retorted  the  other,  shaking  hands  with 
one  man  after  another. 

"Jim  Bridger  ?  That's  a  name  we  know,"  said  Ban-i; 
ion.  "I've  heard  of  you  back  in  Kentucky." 

"Whar  I  come  from,  gentlemen — whar  I  come  froml 
more'n  forty  year  ago,  near's  I  can  figger.  Leastways!: 
I  was  horned  in  Virginny  an'  must  of  crossed 
Kentucky  sometime.  I  kain't  tell  right  how  old  I  am,I 
but  I  rek'lect  perfect  when  they  turned  the  water  inter! 
the  Missoury  River."  He  looked  at  them  solemnly. 

"I  come  back  East  to  the  new  place,  Kansas  City.i 
It  didn't  cut  no  mustard,  an*  I  drifted  to  the  Bluffs.! 
This  train  was  pullin'  west,  an*  I  hired  on  for  guide.I 
I've  got  a  few  wagons  o'  my  own — iron,  flour  an'] 
bacon  for  my  post  beyant  the  Rockies — ef  we  don't  all! 
git  our  ha'r  lifted  afore  then ! 

"We're  in  between  the  Sioux  and  the  Pawnees  now, "I 
he  went  on.  "They're  huntin'  the  bufflers  not  ten  mile] 
ahead.  But  when  I  tell  these  pilgrims,  they  laugh  atj 
me.  The  hull  Sioux  nation  is  on  the  spring  hunt  right] 
now.  I'll  not  have  it  said  Jim  Bridger  led  a  wagon] 
train  into  a  massacree.  If  ye'll  let  me,  I'm  for  leavin* 
'em  an*  trainin'  with  you-all,  especial  since  you  got  any-] 
how  one  good  man  along.  I've  knowed  Bill  Jacksoni 
many  a  year  at  the  Rendyvous  afore  the  fur  trade] 
petered.  Damn  the  pilgrims !  The  hull  world's  broke 
loose  this  spring.  There's  five  thousand  Mormons  on 

132 


THE  GREAT  ENCAMPMENT 

ahead,  praisin'  God  every  jump  an'  eatin'  the  grass 
below  the  roots.  Womern  an'  children — so  many  of 
'em,  so  many !  I  kain't  talk  about  hit !  Women  don't 
belong  out  here!  An'  now  here  you  come  bringin'  a 
thousand  more! 

"There's  a  woman  an'  a  baby  layin'  dead  in  our 
camp  now,"  he  concluded.  "Died  last  night.  The 
pilgrims  is  tryin'  to  make  coffins  fer  'em  out'n  cot- 
tonwood  logs." 

"Lucky  for  all!"  Jackson  interrupted  the  garrulity 
of  the  other.  "We  buried  men  in  blankets  on  the  Ver 
milion  a  few  days  back.  The  Pawnees  got  a  small 
camp  o'  our  own  folks." 

"Yes,  I  know  all  about  that." 

'What's   that?"    cut    in    Banion.     "How   do   you 

low?" 

'Well,    we've   got   the   survivors — three   o'   them, 
mntin'  Woodhull,  their  captain." 

"How  did  they  get  here?" 

They  came  in  with  a  small  outfit  o'  Mormons  that 
was  north  o'  the  Vermilion.     They'd  come  out  on  the 

St.  Jo  road.     They  told  me " 

Is  Woodhull  here — can  you  find  him?" 

"Shore!   Ye  want  to  see  him?" 

"Yes." 

"He  told  me  all  about  hit " 

"We  know  all  about  it,  perhaps  better  than  you  do — 
after  he's  told  you  all  about  it." 

Bridger  looked  at  him,  curious. 
133 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Well,  anyhow,  hit's  over,"  said  he.  "One  of  the 
men  had  a  Pawnee  arrer  in  his  laig.  Reckon  hit  hurt. 
I  know,  fer  I  carried  a  Black  foot  arrerhead  under  my 
shoulder  blade  fer  sever'l  years. 

"But  come  on  down  and  help  me  make  these  pilgrims 
set  guards.  Do-ee  mind,  now,  the  hull  Sioux  nation's 
just  in  ahead  o'  us,  other  side  the  river!  Yet  these 
people  didn't  want  to  ford  to  the  south  side  the  Platte ; 
they  wanted  to  stick  north  o'  the  river.  Ef  we  had, 
we'd  have  our  ha'r  dryin'  by  now.  I  tell  ye,  the 
tribes  is  out  to  stop  the  wagon  trains  this  spring. 
They  say  too  many  womern  and  children  is  comin', 
an'  that  shows  we  want  to  take  their  land  away  fer 
keeps. 

"From  now  on  to  Oregon — look  out !  The  Cayuses 
cleaned  out  the  Whitman  mission  last  spring  in  Oregon. 
Even  the  Shoshones  is  dancin'.  The  Crows  is  out, 
the  Cheyennes  is  marchin',  the  Bannocks  is  east  o'  the 
Pass,  an'  ye  kain't  tell  when  ter  expeck  the  Blackfoots 
an*  Grow  Vaws.  Never  was  gladder  to  see  a  man 
than  I  am  to  see  Bill  Jackson." 

"Stretchout!" 

Banion  gave  the  order.  The  Missouri  wagons  came 
on,  filed  through  the  gap  in  order  and  with  military  ex 
actness  wheeled  into  a  perfect  park  at  one  side  the  main 
caravan. 

As  the  outer  columns  swung  in,  the  inner  spread  out 
till  the  lapped  wagons  made  a  great  oblong,  Bridger 
watching  them.  Quickly  the  animals  were  outspanned, 

134 


THE  GREAT  ENCAMPMENT 

the  picket  ropes  put  down  and  the  loose  horses 
driven  off  to  feed  while  the  cattle  were  close  herded. 
He  nodded  his  approval. 

"Who's  yer  train  boss,  Bill?"  he  demanded.  "That's 
good  work." 

"Major  Banion,  of  Doniphan's  column  in  the  war." 

"Will  he  fight?" 

"Try  him!" 

News  travels  fast  along  a  wagon  train.  Word  passed 
now  that  there  was  a  big  Sioux  village  not  far  ahead, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  that  the  caravan 
should  be  ready  for  a  night  attack.  Men  and  women 
from  the  earlier  train  came  into  the  Westport  camp 
and  the  leaders  formulated  plans.  More  than  four 
hundred  families  ate  in  sight  of  one  another  fires  that 
evening. 

Again  on  the  still  air  of  the  Plains  that  night  rose 
the  bugle  summons,  by  now  become  familiar.  In 
groups  the  wagon  folk  began  to  assemble  at  the  council 
fire.  They  got  instructions  which  left  them  serious. 
The  camp  fell  into  semi-silence.  Each  family  returned 
to  its  own  wagon.  Out  in  the  dark,  flung  around  in 
a  wide  circle,  a  double  watch  stood  guard.  Wingate 
and  his  aids,  Banion,  Jackson,  Bridger,  the  pick  of  the 
hardier  men,  went  out  for  all  the  night.  It  was  to 
Banion,  Bridger  and  Jackson  that  most  attention  now 
was  paid.  Banion  could  not  yet  locate  Woodhull  in 
the  train. 

The  scouts  crept  out  ahead  of  the  last  picket  line, 
135 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

for  though  an  attack  in  mass  probably  would  not  come 
before  dawn,  if  the  Sioux  really  should  cross  the  river, 
some  horse  stealing  or  an  attempted  stampede  might  be 
expected  before  midnight  or  soon  after. 

The  night  wore  on.  The  fires  of  willow  twigs  and 
bois  des  vaches  fell  into  pale  coals,  into  ashes.  The 
chill  of  the  Plains  came,  so  that  the  sleepers  in  the 
great  wagon  corral  drew  their  blankets  closer  about 
them  as  they  lay. 

It  was  approaching  midnight  when  the  silence  was 
ripped  apart  by  the  keen  crack  of  a  rifle — another  and 
yet  another. 

Then,  in  a  ripple  of  red  detonation,  the  rifle  fire  ran 
along  the  upper  front  of  the  entire  encampment. 

"Turn  out!  Turn  out,  men!"  called  the  high,  clear 
voice  of  Banion,  riding  back.  "Barricade!  Fill  in 
the  wheels !" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ARROW   AND    PLOW 

THE  night  attack  on  the  great  emigrant  encamp 
ment  was  a  thing  which  had  been  preparing 
for  years.  The  increasing  number  of  the 
white  men,  the  lessening  numbers  of  the  buffalo,  meant 
inevitable  combat  with  all  the  tribes  sooner  or  later. 
Now  the  spring  hunt  of  the  northern  Plains  tribes 
was  on.  Five  hundred  lodges  of  the  Sioux  stood  in 
one  village  on  the  north  side  of  the  Platte.  The 
scaffolds  were  red  with  meat,  everywhere  the  women 
were  dressing  hides  and  the  camp  was  full  of  happiness. 
For  a  month  the  great  Sioux  nation  had  prospered,  ac 
cording  to  its  lights.  Two  hundred  stolen  horses  were 
under  the  wild  herdsmen,  and  any  who  liked  the  meat 
of  the  spotted  buffalo  might  kill  it  close  to  camp  from 
the  scores  taken  out  of  the  first  caravans  up  the  Platte 
that  year — the  Mormons  and  other  early  trailers  whom 
the  Sioux  despised  because  their  horses  were  so  few. 

But  the  Sioux,  fat  with  boudins  and  depouille  and 
marrowbones,  had  waited  long  for  the  great  Western 
train  which  should  have  appeared  on  the  north  side  of 
the  Platte,  the  emigrant  road  from  the  Council  Bluffs. 
For  some  days  now  they  had  known  the  reason,  as  Jim 

137 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Bridger  had  explained — the  wagons  had  forded  the 
river  below  the  Big  Island.  The  white  men's  medicine 
was  strong. 

The  Sioux  did  not  know  of  the  great  rendezvous  at 
the  forks  of  the  Great  Medicine  Road.  Their  watch 
men,  stationed  daily  at  the  eminences  along  the  river 
bluffs  of  the  north  shore,  brought  back  scoffing  word 
of  the  carelessness  of  the  whites.  When  they  got  ready 
they,  too,  would  ford  the  river  and  take  them  in.  They 
had  not  heeded  the  warning  sent  down  the  trail  that 
no  more  whites  should  come  into  this  country  of  the 
tribes.  It  was  to  be  war. 

And  now  the  smoke  signals  said  yet  more  whites 
were  coming  in  from  the  south!  The  head  men  rode 
out  to  meet  their  watchmen.  News  came  back  that 
the  entire  white  nation  now  had  come  into  the  valley 
from  the  south  and  joined  the  first  train. 

Here  then  was  the  chance  to  kill  off  the  entire  white 
nation,  their  women  and  their  children,  so  there  would 
be  none  left  to  come  from  toward  the  rising  sun !  Yes, 
this  would  end  the  race  of  the  whites  without  doubt 
or  question,  because  they  all  were  here.  After  killing 
these  it  would  be  easy  to  send  word  west  to  the 
Arapahoes  and  Gros  Ventres  and  Cheyennes,  the 
Crows,  the  Black  feet,  the  Shoshones,  the  Utes,  to  fol 
low  west  on  the  Medicine  Road  and  wipe  out  all  who 
had  gone  on  West  that  year  and  the  year  before.  Then 
the  Plains  and  the  mountains  would  all  belong  to  the 
red  men  again. 

'38 


ARROW  AND  PLOW 

The  chiefs  knew  that  the  hour  just  before  dawn  is 
when  an  enemy's  heart  is  like  water,  when  his  eyes 
are  heavy,  so  they  did  not  order  the  advance  at  once. 
But  a  band  of  the  young  men  who  always  fought  to 
gether,  one  of  the  inner  secret  societies  or  clans  of 
the  tribe,  could  not  wait  so  long.  First  come,  first 
served.  Daylight  would  be  time  to  look  over  the 
children  and  to  keep  those  not  desired  for  killing,  and 
to  select  and  distribute  the  young  women  of  the  white 
nation.  But  the  night  would  be  best  for  taking  the 
elk-dogs  and  the  spotted  buffalo. 

Accordingly  a  band  from  this  clan  swam  and  forded 
the  wide  river,  crossed  the  island,  and  in  the  early 
evening  came  downstream  back  of  a  shielding  fringe  of 
cottonwoods.  Their  scouts  saw  with  amazement  the 
village  of  tepees  that  moved  on  wheels.  They  heard 
the  bugle,  saw  the  white  nation  gather  at  the  medicine 
fire,  heard  them  chant  their  great  medicine  song;  then 
saw  them  disperse;  saw  the  fires  fall  low. 

They  laughed.  The  white  nation  was  strong,  but 
they  did  not  put  out  guards  at  night!  For  a  week 
the  Sioux  had  watched  them,  and  they  knew  about 
that.  It  would  be  easy  to  run  off  all  the  herd  and  to 
kill  a  few  whites  even  now,  beginning  the  sport  before 
the  big  battle  of  to-morrow,  which  was  to  wipe  out 
the  white  nation  altogether. 

But  when  at  length,  as  the  handle  of  the  Great 
Dipper  reached  the  point  agreed,  the  line  of  the  Sioux 
clansmen  crawled  away  from  the  fringe  of  trees  and 

139 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

out  into  the  cover  of  a  little  slough  that  made  toward 
the  village  of  tepees  on  wheels,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in 
front  of  the  village  men  arose  out  of  the  ground  and 
shot  into  them.  Five  of  their  warriors  fell.  Tall  men 
in  the  dark  came  out  and  counted  coup  on  them,  took 
off  their  war  bonnets;  took  off  even  more  below  the 
bonnets.  And  there  was  a  warrior  who  rode  this  way 
and  that,  on  a  great  black  horse,  and  who  had  a  strange 
war  cry  not  heard  before,  and  who  seemed  to  have 
no  fear.  So  said  the  clan  leader  when  he  told  the 
story  of  the  repulse. 

Taken  aback,  the  attacking  party  found  cover.  But 
the  Sioux  would  charge  three  times.  So  they  scattered 
and  crawled  in  again  over  a  half  circle.  They  found 
the  wall  of  tepees  solid;  found  that  the  white  nation 
knew  more  of  war  than  they  had  thought.  They  sped 
arrow  after  arrow,  ball  after  ball,  against  the  circle  of 
the  white  tepees,  but  they  did  not  break,  and  inside 
no  one  moved  or  cried  out  in  terror;  whereas  outside, 
in  the  grass,  men  rose  up  and  fired  into  them  and  did 
not  run  back,  but  came  forward.  Some  had  short  rifles 
in  their  hands  that  did  not  need  to  be  loaded,  but  kept 
on  shooting.  And  none  of  the  white  nation  ran  away. 
And  the  elk-dogs  with  long  ears,  and  the  spotted 
buffalo,  were  no  longer  outside  the  village  in  the  grass, 
but  inside  the  village.  What  men  could  fight  a  nation 
whose  warriors  were  so  unfair  as  all  this  came  to? 

The  tribesmen  drew  back  to  the  cotton  woods  a  half 
mile. 

140 


ARROW  AND  PLOW 

"My  heart  is  weak/*  said  their  clan  leader.  "I  be 
lieve  they  are  going  to  shoot  us  all.  They  have  killed 
twenty  of  us  now,  and  we  have  not  taken  a  scalp." 

"I  was  close/'  said  a  young  boy  whom  they  called 
Bull  Gets  Up  or  The  Sitting  Bull.  "I  was  close,  and 
I  heard  the  spotted  buffalo  running  about  inside  the 
village ;  I  heard  the  children.  To-morrow  we  can  run 
them  away." 

"But  to-night  what  man  knows  the  gate  into  their 
village?  They  have  got  a  new  chief  to-day.  They  are 
many  as  the  grass  leaves.  Their  medicine  is  strong. 
I  believe  they  are  going  to  kill  us  all  if  we  stay  here." 
Thus  the  partisan. 

So  they  did  not  stay  there,  but  went  away.  And  at 
dawn  Banion  and  Bridger  and  Jackson  and  each  of  the 
column  captains— others  also— came  into  the  corral 
carrying  war  bonnets,  shields  and  bows ;  and  some  had 
things  which  had  been  once  below  war  bonnets.  The 
young  men  of  this  clan  always  fought  on  foot  or  on 
horse  in  full  regalia  of  their  secret  order,  day  or  night. 
The  emigrants  had  plenty  of  this  savage  war  gear 
now. 

"We've  beat  them  off,"  said  Bridger,  "an'  maybe 
they  won't  ring  us  now.  Get  the  cookin'  done,  Cap'n 
Banion,  an*  let's  roll  out.  But  for  your  wagon  park 
they'd  have  cleaned  us." 

The  whites  had  by  no  means  escaped  scathless.  A 
dozen  arrows  stood  sunk  into  the  sides  of  the  wagons 
inside  the  park,  hundreds  had  thudded  into  the  outer 

141 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

sides,  nearest  the  enemy.  One  shaft  was  driven  into 
the  hard  wood  of  a  plow  beam.  Eight  oxen  staggered, 
legs  wide  apart,  shafts  fast  in  their  bodies;  four  lay 
dead;  two  horses  also;  as  many  mules. 

This  was  not  all.  As  the  fighting  men  approached 
the  wagons  they  saw  a  group  of  stern- faced  women 
weeping  around  something  which  lay  covered  by  a 
blanket  on  the  ground.  Molly  Wingate  stooped,  drew 
it  back  to  show  them.  Even  Bridger  winced. 

An  arrow,  driven  by  a  buffalo  bow,  had  glanced  on 
the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  risen  in  its  flight  and  sped  en 
tirely  across  the  inclosure  of  the  corral.  It  had  slipped 
through  the  canvas  cover  of  a  wagon  on  the  opposite 
side  as  so  much  paper  and  caught  fair  a  woman  who 
was  lying  there,  a  nursing  baby  in  her  arms,  shielding 
it,  as  she  thought,  with  her  body.  But  the  missile 
had  cut  through  one  of  her  arms,  pierced  the  head  of 
the  child  and  sunk  into  the  bosom  of  the  mother  deep 
enough  to  kill  her  also.  The  two  lay  now,  the  shaft 
transfixing  both ;  and  they  were  buried  there ;  and  they 
lie  there  still,  somewhere  near  the  Grand  Island,  in 
one  of  a  thousand  unknown  and  unmarked  graves  along 
the  Great  Medicine  Road.  Under  the  ashes  of  a 
fire  they  left  this  grave,  and  drove  six  hundred  wagons 
over  it,  and  the  Indians  never  knew. 

The  leaders  stood  beside  the  dead  woman,  hats  in 
hand.  This  was  part  of  the  price  of  empire — the  life 
of  a  young  woman,  a  bride  of  a  year. 

The  wagons  all  broke  camp  and  went  on  in  a  vast 
142 


ARROW  AND  PLOW 

caravan,  the  Missourians  now  at  the  front.  Noon, 
and  the  train  did  not  halt.  Banion  urged  the  teamsters. 
Bridger  and  Jackson  were  watching  the  many  signal 
smokes. 

"I'm  afeard  o'  the  next  bend,"  said  Jackson  at 
length. 

The  fear  was  justified.  Early  in  the  afternoon  they 
saw  the  outriders  turn  and  come  back  to  the  train  at 
full  run.  Behind  them,  riding  out  from  the  con 
cealment  of  a  clump  of  cotton  woods  on  the  near  side 
of  the  scattering  river  channels,  there  appeared  rank 
after  rank  of  the  Sioux,  more  than  two  thousand  war 
riors  bedecked  in  all  the  savage  finery  of  their  war  dress. 
They  were  after  their  revenge.  They  had  left  their 
village  and,  paralleling  the  white  men's  advance,  had 
forded  on  ahead. 

They  came  out  now,  five  hundred,  eight  hundred,  a 
thousand,  two  thousand  strong,  and  the  ground  shook 
under  the  thunder  of  the  hoofs.  They  were  after  their 
revenge,  eager  to  inflict  the  final  blow  upon  the  white 
nation. 

The  spot  was  not  ill  chosen  for  their  tactics.  The 
alkali  plain  of  the  valley  swung  wide  and  flat,  and  the 
trail  crossed  it  midway,  far  back  from  the  water  and 
not  quite  to  the  flanking  sand  hills.  While  a  few 
dashed  at  the  cattle,  waving  their  blankets,  the  main 
body,  with  workman-like  precision,  strung  out  and 
swung  wide,  circling  the  train  and  riding  in  to  arrow 
range. 

143 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

The  quick  orders  of  Banion  and  his  scouts  were 
obeyed  as  fully  as  time  allowed.  At  a  gallop,  horse 
and  ox  transport  alike  were  driven  into  a  hurried  park 
and  some  at  least  of  the  herd  animals  inclosed.  The 
riflemen  flanked  the  train  on  the  danger  side  and  fired 
continually  at  the  long  string  of  running  horses,  whose 
riders  had  flung  themselves  off-side  so  that  only  a  heel 
showed  above  a  pony's  back,  a  face  under  his  neck. 
Even  at  this  range  a  half  dozen  ponies  stumbled, 
figures  crawled  off  for  cover.  The  emigrants  were 
stark  men  with  rifles.  But  the  circle  went  on  until, 
at  the  running  range  selected,  the  crude  wagon  park 
was  entirely  surrounded  by  a  thin  racing  ring  of  steel 
and  fire  stretched  out  over  two  or  three  miles. 

The  Sioux  had  guns  also,  and  though  they  rested 
most  on  the  bow,  their  chance  rifle  fire  was  dangerous. 
As  for  the  arrows,  even  from  this  disadvantageous 
station  these  peerless  bowmen  sent  them  up  in  a  high 
arc  so  that  they  fell  inside  the  inclosure  and  took  their 
toll.  Three  men,  two  women  lay  wounded  at  the  first 
ride,  and  the  animals  were  plunging. 

The  war  chief  led  his  warriors  in  the  circle  once 
more,  chanting  his  own  song  to  the  continuous  chorus 
of  savage  ululations.  The  entire  fighting  force  of  the 
Sioux  village  was  in  the  circle. 

The  ring  ran  closer.  The  Sioux  were  inside 
seventy-five  yards,  the  dust  streaming,  the  hideously 
painted  faces  of  the  riders  showing  through,  red,  saf- 

144 


ARROW  AND  PLOW 

fron,  yellow,  as  one  after  another  warrior  twanged  a 
bow  under  his  horse's  neck  as  he  ran. 

But  this  was  easy  range  for  the  steady  rifles  of  men 
who  kneeled  and  fired  with  careful  aim.  Even  the 
six-shooters,  then  new  to  the  Sioux,  could  work.  Pony 
after  pony  fell,  until  the  line  showed  gaps;  whereas 
now  the  wagon  corral  showed  no  gap  at  all,  while 
through  the  wheels,  and  over  the  tongue  spaces,  from 
every  crevice  of  the  gray  towering  wall  came  the 
fire  of  more  and  more  men.  The  medicine  of  the  white 
men  was  strong. 

Three  times  the  ring  passed,  and  that  was  all.  The 
third  circuit  was  wide  and  ragged.  The  riders  dared 
not  come  close  enough  to  carry  off  their  dead  and 
wounded.  Then  the  attack  dwindled,  the  savages 
scattering  and  breaking  back  to  the  cover  of  the  stream. 

"Now,  men,  come  on!"  called  out  Banion.  "Ride 
them  down !  Give  them  a  trimming  they'll  remember ! 
Come  on,  boys !" 

Within  a  half  hour  fifty  more  Sioux  were  down, 
dead  or  very  soon  to  die.  Of  the  living  not  one  re 
mained  in  sight. 

"They  wanted  hit,  an*  they  got  hit!"  exclaimed 
Bridger,  when  at  length  he  rode  back,  four  war  bonnets 
across  his  saddle  and  scalps  at  his  cantle.  He  raised 
his  voice  in  a  fierce  yell  of  triumph,  not  much  other  than 
savage  himself,  dismounted  and  disdainfully  cast  his 
trophies  across  a  wagon  tongue. 

"I've  et  horse  an*  mule  an*  dog,"  said  he,  "an*  wolf, 
145 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

wil'cat  an*  skunk,  an*  perrairy  dog  an*  snake  an*  most 
everything  else  that  wears  a  hide,  but  I  never  could 
eat  Sioux.  But  to-morrer  we'll  have  ribs  in  camp. 
I've  seed  the  buffler,  an*  we  own  this  side  the  river 
now." 

Molly  Wingate  sat  on  a  bed  roll  near  by,  knitting  as 
calmly  as  though  at  home,  but  filled  with  wrath. 

"Them  nasty,  dirty  critters!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
wish't  the  boys  had  killed  them  all.  Even  in  daylight 
they  don't  stand  up  and  fight  fair  like  men.  I  lost  a 
whole  churnin*  yesterday.  Besides,  they  killed  my 
best  cow  this  mornin',  that's  what  they  done.  And 
lookit  this  thing !" 

She  held  up  an  Indian  arrow,  its  strap-iron  head 
bent  over  at  right  angles.  "They  shot  this  into  our 
plow  beam.  Looks  like  they  got  a  spite  at  our  plow." 

"Ma'am,  they  have  got  a  spite  at  hit,"  said  the  old 
scout,  seating  himself  on  the  ground  near  by.  "They're 
scared  o'  hit.  I've  seed  a  bunch  o'  Sioux  out  at 
Laramie  with  a  plow  some  Mormon  left  around  when 
he  died.  They'd  walk  around  and  around  that  thing 
by  the  hour,  talkin'  low  to  theirselves.  They  couldn't 
figger  hit  out  no  ways  a-tall. 

"That  season  they  sent  a  runner  down  to  the  Pawnees 
to  make  a  peace  talk,  an'  to  find  out  what  this  yere 
thing  was  the  whites  had  brung  out.  Pawnees  sen? 
to  the  Otoes,  an'  the  Otoes  told  them.  They  said  hit  was 
the  white  man's  big  medicine,  an'  that  hit  buried  all  the 
buffler  under  the  ground  wherever  hit  come,  so  no  bufikr 

146 


ARROW  AND  PLOW 

ever  could  git  out  again.  Nacherl,  when  the  runners 
come  back  an'  told  what  that  thing  really  was,  all  the 
Injuns,  every  tribe,  said  if  the  white  man  was  goin'  to 
bury  the  burner  the  white  man  had  got  to  stay  back. 

"Us  trappers  an*  traders  got  along  purty  well  with 
the  Injuns — they  could  get  things  they  wanted  at  the 
posts  or  the  Rendyvous,  an'  that  was  all  right.  They 
had  pelts  to  sell.  But  now  these  movers  didn't  buy 
nothin'  an'  didn't  sell  nothin'.  They  just  went  on 
through,  a-carryin'  this  thing  for  buryin*  the  buffier. 
From  now  on  the  Injuns  is  goin'  to  fight  the  whites. 
Ye  kain't  blame  'em,  ma'am ;  they  only  see  their  finish. 

"Five  years  ago  nigh  a  thousand  whites  drops  down 
in  Oregon.  Next  year  come  fifteen  hundred,  an'  in 
'45  twicet  that  many,  an'  so  it  has  went,  doublin,  an' 
doublin'.  Six  or  seven  thousand  whites  go  up  the 
Platte  this  season,  an'  a  right  smart  sprinklin'  o* 
them'll  git  through  to  Oregon.  Them  'at  does'll  carry 
plows. 

"Ma'am,  if  the  brave  that  sunk  a  arrer  in  yore  plow 
beam  didn't  kill  yore  plow  hit  warn't  because  he  didn't 
want  to.  Hit's  the  truth — the  plow  does  bury  the 
buffler,  an'  fer  keeps!  Ye  kain't  kill  a  plow,  ner 
neither  kin  yer  scare  hit  away.  Hit's  the  holdin'est 
thing  ther  is,  ma'am — hit  never  does  let  go." 

"How  long'll  we  wait  here?"  the  older  woman  de 
manded. 

"Anyhow  fer  two-three  days,  ma'am.  Thar's  a  lot 
has  got  to  sort  out  stuff  an'  throw  hit  away  here.  One 

147 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

man  has  drug  a  pair  o'  millstones  all  the  way  to  here 
from  Ohio.  He  allowed  to  get  rich  startin'  a  gris'mill 
out  in  Oregon.  An*  then  ther's  chairs  an*  tables,  an' 
God  knows  what " 

"Well,  anyhow,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Wingate  truculently, 
"no  difference  what  you  men  say,  I  ain't  going  to  leave 
my  bureau,  nor  my  table,  nor  my  chairs!  I'm  going 
to  keep  my  two  churns  and  my  feather  bed  too.  We've 
had  butter  all  the  way  so  far,  and  I  mean  to  have  it 
all  the  way — and  eggs.  I  mean  to  sleep  at  nights,  too, 
if  the  pesky  muskeeters'll  let  me.  They  most  have  et 
me  up.  And  I'd  give  a  dollar  for  a  drink  of  real 
water  now.  It's  all  right  to  settle  this  water  overnight, 
but  that  don't  take  the  sody  out  of  it. 

"Besides,"  she  went  on,  "I  got  four  quarts  o'  seed 
wheat  in  one  of  them  bureau  drawers,  and  six  cuttings 
of  my  best  rose-bush  I'm  taking  out  to  plant  in  Oregon. 
And  I  got  three  pairs  of  Jed's  socks  in  another  bureau 
drawer.  It's  flat  on  its  back,  bottom  of  the  load.  I 
ain't  going  to  dig  it  out  for  no  man." 

"Well,  hang  on  to  them  socks,  ma'am.  I've  wintered 
many  a  time  without  none — only  grass  in  my 
moccasins.  There's  outfits  in  this  train  that's  low  on 
flour  an'  side  meat  right  now,  let  alone  socks.  We  got 
to  cure  some  meat.  There's  a  million  buffler  just 
south  in  the  breaks  wantin'  to  move  on  north,  but 
scared  of  us  an'  the  Injuns.  We'd  orto  make  a  good 
hunt  inside  o'  ten  mile  to-morrer.  We'll  git  enough 
meat  to  take  us  a  week  to  jerk  hit  all,  or  else  Jim  Brid- 

148 


ARROW  AND  PLOW 

ger's  a  liar — which  no  one  never  has  said  yit,  ma'am." 

"Flowers?"  he  added.  "You  takin'  flowers  acrost? 
Flowers — do  they  go  with  the  plow,  too,  as  well  as 
weeds?  Well,  well!  Wimmin folks  shore  air  a  strange 
race  o'  people,  hain't  that  the  truth?  Buryin'  the 
buffler  an'  plantin'  flowers  on  his  grave ! 

"But  speakin'  o'  buryin'  things,"  he  suddenly  re 
sumed,  "an'  speakin'  o'  plows,  'minds  me  o'  what's 
delayin'  us  all  right  now.  Hit's  a  fool  thing,  too— 
bury  in'  Injuns!" 

"As  which,  Mr.  Bridger?  What  you  mean?"  in 
quired  Molly  Wingate,  looking  over  her  spectacles. 

"This  new  man,  Banion,  that  come  in  with  the  Mis 
souri  wagons —  he  taken  hit  on  hisself  to  say,  atter 
the  fight  was  over,  we  orto  stop  an'  bury  all  them 
Injuns !  Well,  I  been  on  the  Plains  an'  in  the  Rockies 
all  my  life,  an'  I  never  yit,  before  now,  seed  a  Injun 
buried.  Hit's  onnatcherl.  But  this  here  man  he,  now, 
orders  a  ditch  plowed  an'  them  Injuns  hauled  in  an* 
planted.  Hit's  wastin'  time.  That's  what's  keepin* 
him  an'  yore  folks  an'  sever'l  others.  Yore  husband 
an'  yore  son  is  both  out  yan  with  him.  Hit  beats  hell, 
ma'am,  these  new-fangled  ways !" 

"So  that's  where  they  are  ?  I  wanted  them  to  fetcK 
me  something  to  make  a  fire." 

"I  kain't  do  that,  ma'am.    Mostly  my  squaws " 

"Your  what?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  got 
squaws,  you  old  heathen  ?" 

"Not  many,  ma'am— only  two.  Times  is  hard  sence 
149 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

beaver  went  down.  I  kain't  tell  ye  how  hard  this  here 
depressin'  has  set  on  us  folks  out  here." 

"Two  squaws!  My  laws!  Two — what's  their 
names?"  This  last  with  feminine  curiosity. 

"Well  now,  ma'am,  I  call  one  on  'em  Blast  Yore 
Hide — she's  a  Ute.  The  other  is  younger  an'  pertier. 
She's  a  Shoshone.  I  call  her  Dang  Yore  Eyes.  Both 
them  women  is  powerful  fond  o'  me,  ma'am.  They 
both  are  right  proud  o'  their  names,  too,  because  they 
air  white  names,  ye  see.  Now  when  time  comes  fer 
a  fire,  Blast  Yore  Hide  an'  Dang  Yore  Eyes,  they 
fight  hit  out  between  'em  which  gits  the  wood.  I  don't 
study  none  over  that,  ma'am." 

Molly  Wingate  rose  so  ruffled  that,  like  an  angered 
hen,  she  seemed  twice  her  size. 

"You  old  heathen !"  she  exclaimed.  "You  old  mur- 
derin'  lazy  heathen  man  I  How  dare  you  talk  like  that 
tome?" 

"As  what,  ma'am?  I  hain't  said  nothin'  out'n  the 
way,  have  I  ?  O'  course,  ef  ye  don't  want  to  git  the 
fire  stuff,  thar's  yer  darter — she's  young  an'  strong. 
Yes,  an'  perty  as  a  picter  besides,  though  like  enough 
triflin',  like  her  maw.  Where's  she  at  now?" 

"None  of  your  business  where." 

"I  could  find  her." 

"Oh,  you  could!    How?" 

"I'd  find  that  young  feller  Sam  Woodhull  that  come 
in  from  below,  renegadin'  away  from  his  train  with 
that  party  o'  Mormons — him  that  had  his  camp  jumped 

150 


ARROW  AND  PLOW 

by  the  Pawnees.  I  got  a  eye  fer  a  womern,  ma'am, 
but  so's  he — more'n  fer  Injuns,  I'd  say.  I  seed  him 
with  yore  darter  right  constant,  but  I  seemed  to  miss 
him  in  the  ride.  Whar  was  he  at?" 

"I  don't  know  as  it's  none  of  your  business,  any 
ways." 

"No?  Well,  I  was  just  wonderin',  ma'am,  because 
I  heerd  Cap'n  Banion  ast  that  same  question  o'  yore 
husband,  Cap'n  Wingate,  an'  Cap'n  Wingate  done  said 
jest  what  ye  said  yerself — that  hit  wasn't  none  o'  his 
business.  Which  makes  things  look  shore  hopeful  an* 
pleasant  in  this  yere  train  o'  pilgrims,  this  bright  and 
pleasant  summer  day,  huh?" 

Grinning  amicably,  the  incorrigible  old  mountaineer 
rose  and  went  his  way,  and  left  the  irate  good  wife  to 
gather  her  apron  full  of  plains  fuel  for  herself. 


CHAPTER   XIX 
BANION  OF  DONIPHAN'S 

MOLLY  WINGATE  was  grumbing  over  her 
fire  when  at  length  her  husband  and  son  re 
turned  to  their  wagon.  Jed  was  vastly  proud 
over  a  bullet  crease  he  had  got  in  a  shoulder.  After  his 
mother's  alarm  had  taken  the  form  of  first  aid  he  was 
all  for  showing  his  battle  scars  to  a  certain  damsel  in 
Caleb  Price's  wagon.  Wingate  remained  dour  and 
silent  as  was  now  his  wont,  and  cursing  his  luck  that  he 
had  had  no  horse  to  carry  him  up  in  the  late  pursuit  of 
the  Sioux.  He  also  was  bitter  over  the  delay  in  making 
a  burial  trench. 

"Some  ways,  Jess/*  commented  his  spouse,  "I'd 
a'most  guess  you  ain't  got  much  use  for  Will  Banion." 

"Why  should  I  have  ?  Hasn't  he  done  all  he  could  to 
shoulder  me  out  of  my  place  as  captain  of  this  train? 
And  wasn't  I  elected  at  Westport  before  we  started?" 

"Mostly,  a  man  has  to  stay  elected,  Jess." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to !  I  had  it  out  with  that  young 
man  right  now.  I  told  him  I  knew  why  he  wanted  in 
our  train — it  was  Molly." 

"What  did  he  say?" 


BANION  OF  DONIPHAN'S 

"What  could  he  say?  He  admitted  it.  And  he  had 
the  gall  to  say  I'd  see  it  his  way  some  day.  Huh !  That's 
a  long  day  off,  before  I  do.  Well,  at  least  he  said  he  was 
going  back  to  his  own  men,  and  they'd  fall  behind 
again.  That  suits  me." 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  finding  Sam  Woodhull?," 

"Yes.  He  said  that  would  take  its  time,  too." 

"Didn't  say  he  wouldn't?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  as  he  did." 

"Didn't  act  scared  of  it?" 

"He  didn't  say  much  about  it." 

"Sam  does." 

"I  reckon — and  why  shouldn't  he?  He'll  play  evens 
some  day,  of  course.  But  now,  Molly,"  he  went  on, 
with  heat,  "what's  the  use  talking?  We  both  know  that 
Molly's  made  up  her  mind.  She  loves  Sam  and  don't 
love  this  other  man  any  more  than  I  do.  He's  only  a 
drift-about  back  from  the  war,  and  wandering  out  to 
Oregon.  He'll  maybe  not  have  a  cent  when  he  gets 
there.  He's  got  one  horse  and  his  clothes,  and  one  or 
two  wagons,  maybe  not  paid  for.  Sam's  got  five  wa 
gons  of  goods  to  start  a  store  with,  and  three  thousand 
gold — so  he  says — as  much  as  we  have.  The  families 
are  equal,  and  that's  always  a  good  thing.  This  man 
Banion  can't  offer  Molly  nothing,  but  Sam  Woodhull 
can  give  her  her  place  right  from  the  start,  out  in  Ore 
gon.  We  got  to  think  of  all  them  things. 

"And  I've  got  to  think  of  a  lot  of  other  things,  too. 
It's  our  girl.    It's  all  right  to  say  a  man  can  go  out  to 

153 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Oregon  and  live  down  his  past,  but  it's  a  lot  better  not 
to  have  no  past  to  live  down.  You  know  what  Major 
Banion  done,  and  how  he  left  the  Army — even  if  it 
wasn't  why,  it  was  how,  and  that's  bad  enough.  Sam 
Woodhull  has  told  us  both  all  about  Banion' s  record. 
If  he'd  steal  in  Mexico  he'd  steal  in  Oregon." 

"You  didn't  ever  get  so  far  along  as  to  talk  about 
that!" 

"We  certainly  did— right  now,  him  and  me,  not  half 
an  hour  ago,  while  we  was  riding  back." 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  he'd  of  stood  it,"  said  his 
wife,  "him  sort  of  fiery-like." 

"Well,  it  did  gravel  him.  He  got  white,  but  wouldn't 
talk.  Asked  if  Sam  Woodhull  had  the  proof,  and  I  told 
him  he  had.  That  was  when  he  said  he'd  go  back  to  his 
own  wagons.  I  could  see  he  was  avoiding  Sam.  But 
I  don't  see  how,  away  out  here,  and  no  law  nor  nothing, 
we're  ever  going  to  keep  the  two  apart." 

"They  wasn't." 

"No.  They  did  have  it  out,  like  schoolboys  behind 
a  barn.  Do  you  suppose  that'll  ever  do  for  a  man  of 
spirit  like  Sam  Woodhull?  No,  there's  other  ways. 
And  as  I  said,  it's  a  far  ways  from  the  law  out  here,  and 
getting  farther  every  day,  and  wilder  and  wilder  every 
day.  It's  only  putting  it  off,  Molly,  but  on  the  whole  I 
was  glad  when  Banion  said  he'd  give  up  looking  for 
Sam  Woodhull  this  morning  and  go  on  back  to  his  own 
men." 

"Did  he  say  he'd  give  it  up?" 
154 


BANION  OF  DONIPHAN'S 

"Yes,  he  did.    He  said  if  I'd  wait  I'd  see  different. 
Said  he  could  wait — said  he  was  good  at  waiting." 
"But  he  didn't  say  he'd  give  it  up?" 
"I  don't  know  as  he  did  in  so  many  words." 
"He  won't,"  said  Molly  Wingate. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    BUFFALO 

THE  emigrants  had  now  arrived  at  the  eastern 
edge  of  the  great  region  of  free  and  abundant 
meat.  They  now  might  count  on  at  least  six  or 
seven  hundred  miles  of  buffalo  to  subsist  them  on  their 
way  to  Oregon.  The  cry  of  "Buffalo !  Buffalo !"  went 
joyously  down  the  lines  of  wagons,  and  every  man  who 
could  muster  a  horse  and  a  gun  made  ready  for  that 
chase  which  above  all  others  meant  most,  whether  in 
excitement  or  in  profit. 

Of  these  hundreds  of  hunters,  few  had  any  experi 
ence  on  the  Plains.  It  was  arranged  by  the  head  men 
that  the  hunt  should  be  strung  out  over  several  miles, 
the  Missourians  farthest  down  the  river,  the  others  to 
the  westward,  so  that  all  might  expect  a  fairer  chance 
in  an  enterprise  of  so  much  general  importance. 

Banion  and  Jackson,  in  accordance  with  the  former's 
promise  to  Wingate,  had  retired  to  their  own  train 
shortly  after  the  fight  with  the  Sioux.  The  Wingate 
train  leaders  therefore  looked  to  Bridger  as  their  safest 
counsel  in  the  matter  of  getting  meat.  That  worthy 
headed  a  band  of  the  best  equipped  men  and  played  his 
own  part  in  full  character.  A  wild  figure  he  made  as  he 

156 


THE  BUFFALO 

rode,  hatless,  naked  to  the  waist,  his  legs  in  Indian 
leggings  and  his  feet  in  moccasins.  His  mount,  a  com 
pact  cayuse  from  west  of  the  Rockies,  bore  no  saddle 
beyond  a  folded  blanket  cinched  on  with  a  rawhide 
band. 

For  weapons  Bridger  carried  no  firearms  at  all,  but 
bore  a  short  buffalo  bow  of  the  Pawnees — double- 
curved,  sinew-backed,  made  of  the  resilient  bois  d'arc, 
beloved  bow  wood  of  all  the  Plains  tribes.  A  thick  sheaf 
of  arrows,  newly  sharpened,  swung  in  the  beaver  quiver 
at  his  back.  Lean,  swart,  lank  of  hair,  he  had  small 
look  of  the  white  man  left  about  him  as  he  rode  now, 
guiding  his  horse  with  a  jaw  rope  of  twisted  hair  and 
playing  his  bow  with  a  half  dozen  arrows  held  along 
it  with  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand. 

"For  buffler  the  bow's  the  best,"  said  he.  "I'll  show 
ye  before  long." 

They  had  not  too  far  to  go.  At  that  time  the  short- 
grass  country  of  the  Platte  Valley  was  the  great  center 
of  the  bison  herds.  The  wallows  lay  in  thousands,  the 
white  alkali  showing  in  circles  which  almost  touched 
edge  to  edge.  The  influx  of  emigrants  had  for  the  time 
driven  the  herds  back  from  their  ancient  fords  and  wa 
tering  places,  to  which  their  deep-cut  trails  led  down, 
worn  ineradicably  into  the  soil.  It  was  along  one  of 
the  great  buffalo  trails  that  they  now  rode,  breasting 
the  line  of  hills  that  edged  the  Platte  to  the  south. 

When  they  topped  the  flanking  ridge  a  marvelous 
example  of  wild  abundance  greeted  them.  Bands  of 

157 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

elk,  yet  more  numerous  bands  of  antelope,  countless 
curious  gray  wolves,  more  than  one  grizzly  bear  made 
away  before  them,  although  by  orders  left  unpursued. 
Of  the  feathered  game  they  had  now  forgot  all  thought. 
The  buffalo  alone  was  of  interest.  The  wild  guide  rode 
silent,  save  for  a  low  Indian  chant  he  hummed,  his 
voice  at  times  rising  high,  as  though  importunate. 

"Ye  got  to  pray  to  the  Great  Speret  when-all  ye  hunt, 
men,"  he  explained.  "An'  ye  got  to  have  someone  that 
can  call  the  buffler,  as  the  Injuns  calls  that  when  they 
hunt  on  foot.  I  kin  call  'em,  too,  good  as  ary  Injun. 
Why  shouldn't  I? 

"Thar  now!"  he  exclaimed  within  the  next  quarter 
of  an  hour.  "What  did  Jim  Bridger  tell  ye?  Lookee 
yonder !  Do-ee  say  Jim  Bridger  can't  make  buffler  medi 
cine?  Do-ee  see  'em  over  yan  ridge — thousands?" 

The  others  felt  their  nerves  jump  as  they  topped  the 
ridge  and  saw  fully  the  vast  concourse  of  giant  black- 
topped,  beard- fronted  creatures  which  covered  the  pla 
teau  in  a  body  a  mile  and  more  across — a  sight  which 
never  failed  to  thrill  any  who  saw  it. 

It  was  a  rolling  carpet  of  brown,  like  the  prairie's 
endless  wave  of  green.  Dust  clouds  of  combat  rose  here 
and  there.  A  low  muttering  rumble  of  hoarse  dull  bel 
lowing  came  audible  even  at  that  distance.  The  spec 
tacle  was  to  the  novice  not  only  thrilling — it  was  terri 
fying. 

The  general  movement  of  the  great  pack  was  toward 
the  valley ;  closest  to  them  a  smaller  body  of  some  hun- 

158 


THE  BUFFALO 

dreds  that  stood,  stupidly  staring,  not  yet  getting  the 
wind  of  their  assailants. 

Suddenly  rose  the  high-pitched  yell  of  the  scout, 
sounding  the  charge.  Snorting,  swerving,  the  horses 
of  the  others  followed  his,  terror  smitten  but  driven 
in  by  men  most  of  whom  at  least  knew  how  to  ride. 

Smoothly  as  a  bird  in  flight,  Bridger's  trained  buffalo 
horse  closed  the  gap  between  him  and  a  plunging  bunch 
of  the  buffalo.  The  white  savage  proved  himself  peer  of 
any  savage  of  the  world.  His  teeth  bared  as  he  threw 
his  body  into  the  bow  with  a  short,  savage  jab  of  the 
left  arm  as  he  loosed  the  sinew  cord.  One  after  another 
feather  showed,  clinging  to  a  heaving  flank;  one  after 
another  muzzle  dripped  red  with  the  white  foam  of 
running;  then  one  after  another  great  animal  began  to 
slow ;  to  stand  braced,  legs  apart ;  soon  to  begin  slowly 
kneeling  down.  The  living  swept  ahead,  the  dying  lay 
in  the  wake. 

The  insatiate  killer  clung  on,  riding  deep  into  the 
surging  sea  of  rolling  humps.  At  times,  in  savage  sure- 
ness  and  cruelty,  he  did  not  ride  abreast  and  drive  the 
arrow  into  the  lungs,  but  shot  from  the  rear,  quarter 
ing,  into  the  thin  hide  back  of  the  ribs,  so  that  the 
shaft  ranged  forward  into  the  intestines  of  the  victim. 
If  it  did  not  bury,  but  hung  free  as  the  animal  kicked  at 
it  convulsively,  he  rode  up,  and  with  his  hand  pushed 
the  shaft  deeper,  feeling  for  the  life,  as  the  Indians 
called  it,  with  short  jabs  of  the  imbedded  missile.  Mas 
ter  of  an  old  trade  he  was,  and  stimulated  by  the  proofs 

159 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

of  his  skill  his  followers  emulated  him  with  their  own 
weapons.  The  report  of  firearms,  muffled  by  the  rolling 
thunder  of  hoofs,  was  almost  continuous  so  long  as  the 
horses  could  keep  touch  with  the  herd. 

Bridger  paused  only  when  his  arrows  were  out,  and 
grumbled  to  himself  that  he  had  no  more,  so  could 
count  only  a  dozen  fallen  buffalo  for  his  product.  That 
others,  wounded,  carried  off  arrows,  he  called  bad  luck 
and  bad  shooting.  When  he  trotted  back  on  his  reeking 
horse,  his  quiver  dancing  empty,  he  saw  other  black 
spots  than  his  own  on  the  short  grass.  His  followers 
had  picked  up  the  art  not  so  ill.  There  was  meat  in 
sight  now,  certainly — as  well  as  a  half  dozen  unhorsed 
riders  and  three  or  four  wounded  buffalo  disposed  to 
fight. 

The  old  hunter  showed  his  men  how  to  butcher  the 
buffalo,  pulling  them  on  their  bellies,  if  they  had  not 
died  thus,  and  splitting  the  hide  down  the  back,  to  make 
a  receptacle  for  the  meat  as  it  was  dissected;  showed 
them  how  to  take  out  the  tongue  beneath  the  jaw,  after 
slitting  open  the  lower  jaw.  He  besought  them  not  to 
throw  away  the  back  fat,  the  hump,  the  boss  ribs  or  the 
intestinal  boudins;  in  short,  gave  them  their  essential 
buffalo-hunting  lessons.  Then  he  turned  for  camp,  he 
himself  having  no  relish  for  squaw's  work,  as  he  called 
it,  and  well  assured  the  wagons  would  now  have  abun 
dance. 


Banion  and  Jackson,  with  their  followers,  held  their 
9  160 


THE  BUFFALO 

hunt  some  miles  below  the  scene  of  Bridget's  chase, 
and  had  no  greater  difficulty  in  getting  among  the  herds. 

"How're  ye  ridin',  Will?"  asked  Jackson  before  they 
mounted  for  the  start  from  camp. 

Banion  slapped  the  black  stallion  on  the  neck. 

"Not  his  first  hunt !"  said  he. 

"I  don't  mean  yore  hoss,  but  yore  shootin'  irons. 
Whar's  yore  guns?" 

"I'll  risk  it  with  the  dragoon  revolvers,"  replied  Ban- 
ion,  indicating  his  holsters.  "Not  the  first  time  for 
them,  either." 

"No?  Well,  maybe-so  they'll  do;  but  fer  me,  I  want 
a  hunk  o'  lead.  Fer  approachin'  a  buffler,  still-huntin', 
the  rifle's  good,  fer  ye  got  time  an'  kin  hold  close. 
Plenty  o'  our  men'll  hunt  thataway  to-day,  an'  git  meat; 
but  fer  me,  give  me  a  hunk  o'  lead.  See  here  now,  I  got 
only  a  shotgun,  cap  an'  ball,  fourteen  gauge,  she  is,  an' 
many  a  hide  she's  stretched.  I  kerry  my  bullets  in  my 
mouth  an'  don't  use  no  patchin' — ye  hain't  got  time, 
when  ye're  runnin'  in  the  herd.  I  let  go  a  charge  o' 
powder  out'n  my  horn,  clos't  as  I  kin  guess  hit,  spit  in 
a  bullet,  and  roll  her  home  on  top  the  powder  with  a 
jar  o'  the  butt  on  top  my  saddle  horn.  That  sots  her 
down,  an*  she  holds  good  enough  to  stay  in  till  I  ram 
the  muzzle  inter  ha'r  an'  let  go.  She's  the  same  as  meat 
on  the  fire." 

"Well,"  laughed  Banion,  "you've  another  case  of  de 
gustibus,  I  suppose." 

"You're  another,  an'  I  call  it  back !"  exclaimed  the  old 
161 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

man  so  truculently  that  his  friend  hastened  to  explain. 

"Well,  I  speak  Black  foot,  Crow,  Bannack,  Grow 
Vaw,  Snake  an'  Ute,"  grumbled  the  scout,  "but  I  never 
run  acrost  no  Latins  out  here.  I  allowed  maybe-so  ye 
was  allowin'  I  couldn't  kill  buffler  with  Ole  Sal.  That's 
what  I  keep  her  fer — just  buffler.  I'll  show  ye  afore 
long." 

And  even  as  Bridger  had  promised  for  his  favorite 
weapon,  he  did  prove  beyond  cavil  the  efficiency  of  Old 
Sal.  Time  after  time  the  roar  or  the  double  roar  of  his 
fusee  was  heard,  audible  even  over  the  thunder  of  the 
hoofs;  and  quite  usually  the  hunk  of  lead,  driven  into 
heart  or  lights,  low  down,  soon  brought  down  the  game, 
stumbling  in  its  stride.  The  old  half  breed  style  of  load 
ing,  too,  was  rapid  enough  to  give  Jackson  as  many 
buffalo  as  Bridger's  bow  had  claimed  before  his  horse 
fell  back  and  the  dust  cloud  lessened  in  the  distance. 

The  great  speed  and  bottom  of  Banion's  horse,  as 
well  as  the  beast's  savage  courage  and  hunting  instinct, 
kept  him  in  longer  touch  with  the  running  game.  Banion 
was  in  no  haste.  From  the  sound  of  firing  he  knew  his 
men  would  have  meat.  Once  in  the  surge  of  the  run 
ning  herd,  the  rolling  backs,  low  heads  and  lolling 
tongues,  shaggy  frontlets  and  gleaming  eyes  all  about 
him,  he  dropped  the  reins  on  Pronto' s  neck  and  began 
his  own  work  carefully,  riding  close  and  holding  low, 
always  ready  for  the  sudden  swerve  of  the  horse  away 
from  the  shot  to  avoid  the  usual  rush  of  the  buffalo 
when  struck.  Since  he  took  few  chances,  his  shot  rarely 

162 


THE  BUFFALO 

failed.  In  a  mile  or  so,  using  pains,  he  had  exhausted 
all  but  two  shots,  one  in  each  weapon,  and  of  course  no 
man  could  load  the  old  cap-and-ball  revolver  while  in 
the  middle  of  a  buffalo  run.  Now,  out  of  sheer  pride 
in  his  own  skill  with  small  arms,  he  resolved  upon  at 
tempting  a  feat  of  which  he  once  had  heard  but  never 
had  seen. 

Jackson,  at  a  considerable  distance  to  the  rear,  saw 
his  leader  riding  back  of  two  bulls  which  he  had  cut  off 
and  which  were  making  frantic  efforts  to  overtake  the 
herd.  After  a  time  they  drew  close  together,  running 
parallel  and  at  top  speed.  At  the  distance,  what  Jackson 
saw  was  a  swift  rush  of  the  black  horse  between  the  two 
bulls.  For  an  instant  the  three  seemed  to  run  neck  and 
neck.  Then  the  rider's  arms  seemed  extended,  each  on 
its  side.  Two  puffs  of  blue  smoke  stained  the  gray  dust. 
The  black  horse  sprang  straight  ahead,  not  swerving  to 
either  side.  Two  stumbling  forms  slowed,  staggered 
and  presently  fell  Then  the  dust  passed,  and  he  saw 
the  rider  trot  back,  glancing  here  and  there  over  the 
broad  rolling  plain  at  the  work  of  himself  and  his  men. 

"I  seed  ye  do  hit,  boy!"  exclaimed  the  grizzled  old 
hunter  when  they  met.  "I  seed  ye  plain,  an'  ef  I  hadn't, 
an'  ye'd  said  ye'd  did  hit,  I'd  of  said  ye  was  a  liar." 

"Oh,  the  double?"  Banion  colored,  not  ill  pleased  at 
praise  from  Sir  Hubert,  praise  indeed.  "Well,  I'd  heard 
it  could  be  done." 

"Once  is  enough.  Let  'em  call  ye  a  liar  atter  this! 
Ef  ary  one  o'  them  bulls  had  hit  ye  ye'd  have  had  no 

163 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

hoss ;  an*  ary  one  was  due  to  hit  ye,  or  drive  ye  against 
the  other,  an*  then  he  would.  That's  a  trap  I  hain't 
ridin'  inter  noways,  not  me!" 

He  looked  at  his  own  battered  piece  a  trifle  ruefully. 

"Well,  Ole  Sal,"  said  he,  "  'pears  like  you  an'  me 
ain't  newfangled  enough  for  these  times,  not  none! 
When  I  git  to  Oregon,  ef  I  ever  do,  I'm  a  goin'  to  stay 
than  Times  back,  five  year  ago,  no  one  dreamed  o' 
wagons,  let  alone  plows.  Fust  thing,  they'll  be  makin* 
plows  with  wheels,  an'  rifles  that's  six-shooters  tool" 

He  laughed  loud  and  long  at  his  own  conceit. 

"Well,  anyways,"  said  he,  "we  got  meat.  We've 
licked  one  red  nation  an'  got  enough  meat  to  feed  the 
white  nation,  all  in  a  couple  o'  days.  Not  so  bad — not 
so  bad." 

And  that  night,  in  the  two  separate  encampments,  the 
white  nation,  in  bivouac,  on  its  battle  ground,  sat  around 
the  fires  of  bois  des  vaches  till  near  morning,  roasting 
boss  ribs,  breaking  marrowbones,  laughing,  singing, 
boasting,  shaking  high  their  weapons  of  war,  men  mak 
ing  love  to  their  women — the  Americans,  most  terrible 
and  most  successful  of  all  savages  in  history. 

But  from  one  encampment  two  faces  were  missing 
until  late — Banion  and  Jackson  of  the  Missourians. 
Sam  Woodhull,  erstwhile  column  captain  of  the  great 
train,  of  late  more  properly  to  be  called  unattached,  also 
was  absent.  It  was  supposed  by  their  friends  that  these 
men  might  be  out  late,  superintending  the  butchering, 

164 


THE  BUFFALO 

or  that  at  worst  they  were  benighted  far  out  and  would 
find  their  way  to  camp  the  next  morning. 

Neither  of  these  guesses  was  correct.  Any  guess,  to 
be  correct,  must  have  included  in  one  solution  the  miss 
ing  men  of  both  encampments,  who  had  hunted  miles 
apart. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

THE    QUICKSANDS 

AS  Banion  and  Jackson  ended  their  part  in  the 
buffalo  running  and  gave  instructions  to  the 
wagon  men  who  followed  to  care  for  the  meat, 
they  found  themselves  at  a  distance  of  several  miles 
from  their  starting  point.  They  were  deep  into  a  high 
rolling  plateau  where  the  going  was  more  difficult  than 
in  the  level  sunken  valley  of  the  Platte.  Concluding  that 
it  would  be  easier  to  ride  the  two  sides  of  the  triangle 
than  the  one  over  which  they  had  come  out,  they  headed 
for  the  valley  at  a  sharp  angle.  As  they  rode,  the  keen 
eye  of  Jackson  caught  sight  of  a  black  object  apparently 
struggling  on  the  ground  at  the  bottom  of  a  little  swale 
which  made  down  in  a  long  ribbon  of  green. 

"Look-ee  yan !"  he  exclaimed.  "Some  feller's  lost  his 
buffler,  I  expect.  Let's  ride  down  an'  put  him  out'n  his 
misery  afore  the  wolves  does/' 

They  swung  off  and  rode  for  a  time  toward  the 
strange  object.  Banion  pulled  up. 

"That's  no  buffalo!  That's  a  man  and  his  horse! 
He's  bogged  down!" 

"You're  right,  Will,  an'  bogged  bad !  I've  knew  that 
light-green  slough  grass  to  cover  the  wurst  sort  o' 

166 


THE  QUICKSANDS 

quicksand.  £h<-*  runs  black  sand  under  the  mud,  God 
knows  how  deep.  Ye  kain't  run  a  buffler  inter  hit — he 
knows.  Come  on !" 

They  spurred  down  a  half  mile  of  gentle  .s',;pe,  h.ird 
and  firm  under  foot,  and  halted  at  the  edge  of  one  of 
the  strange  man-traps  which  sometimes  were  found  in 
the  undrained  Plains — a  slough  of  tall,  coarse,  waving 
grass  which  undoubtedly  got  its  moisture  from  some 
lower  stratum. 

In  places  a  small  expanse  of  glistening  black  mud 
appeared,  although  for  the  most  part  the  mask  of  inno 
cent-looking  grass  covered  all  signs  of  danger.  It  was, 
in  effect,  the  dreaded  quicksand,  the  octopus  of  the 
Plains,  which  covered  from  view  more  than  one  victim 
and  left  no  discoverable  trace. 

The  rider  had  attempted  to  cross  a  narrow  neck  of 
the  slough.  His  mount  had  begun  to  sink  and  flounder, 
had  been  urged  forward  until  the  danger  was  obvious. 
Then,  too  late,  the  rider  had  flung  off  and  turned  back, 
sinking  until  his  feet  and  legs  were  gripped  by  the  layer 
of  deep  soft  sand  below.  It  was  one  of  the  rarest  but 
most  terrible  accidents  of  the  savage  wilderness. 

Blackened  by  the  mud  which  lay  on  the  surface,  his 
hat  half  buried,  his  arms  beating  convulsively  as  he 
threw  himself  forward  again  and  again,  the  victim 
must  in  all  likelihood  soon  have  exhausted  himself.  The 
chill  of  night  on  the  high  Plains  soon  would  have  done 
the  rest,  and  by  good  fortune  he  might  have  died  be 
fore  meeting  his  entombment.  His  horse  ere  this  had 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

accepted  fate,  and  ceasing  to  struggle  lay  almost  buried, 
his  head  and  neck  supported  by  a  trembling  bit  of  float 
ing  grass  roots. 

"Steady,  friend  1"  called  out  Banion  as  he  ran  to  the 
edge.  "Don't  fight  it!  Spread  out  your  arms  and  lie 
still !  We'll  get  you  out !" 

"Quick !   My  lariat,  Jackson,  and  yours !"  he  added. 

The  scout  was  already  freeing  the  saddle  ropes.  The 
two  horses  stood,  reins  down,  snorting  at  the  terror 
before  them,  whose  menace  they  now  could  sense. 

"Take  the  horse !"  called  Banion.  "I'll  get  the  man !" 

He  was  coiling  the  thin,  braided  hide  reata,  soft  as  a 
glove  and  strong  as  steel,  which  always  hung  at  the 
Spanish  saddle. 

He  cast,  and  cast  again — yet  again,  the  loop  at  forty 
feet  gone  to  nothing.  The  very  silence  of  the  victim 
nerved  him  to  haste,  and  he  stepped  in  knee  deep,  find 
ing  only  mud,  the  trickle  of  black  sands  being  farther 
out.  The  rope  sped  once  more,  and  fell  within  reach — 
was  caught.  A  sob  or  groan  came,  the  first  sound.  Even 
then  from  the  imprisoned  animal  beyond  him  came  that 
terrifying  sound,  the  scream  of  a  horse  in  mortal  terror. 
Jackson's  rope  fell  short. 

"Get  the  rope  under  your  arms !"  called  Banion  to  the 
blackened,  sodden  figure  before  him.  Slowly,  feebly, 
his  order  was  obeyed.  With  much  effort  the  victim  got 
the  loop  below  one  arm,  across  a  shoulder,  and  then 
paused. 

"Your  rope,  quick,  Bill!" 
168 


THE  QUICKSANDS 

Jaekson  hurried  and  they  joined  the  ends  of  the  two 
ropes. 

"Not  my  horse — -he's  wild.  Dally  on  to  your  own 
saddle,  Bill,  and  go  slow  or  you'll  tear  his  head  off." 

The  scout's  pony,  held  by  the  head  and  backed  slowly, 
squatted  to  its  haunches,  snorting,  but  heaving  strongly 
The  head  of  the  victim  was  drawn  oddly  toward  his 
shoulder  by  the  loop,  but  slowly,  silently,  his  hands 
clutching  at  the  rope,  his  body  began  to  rise,  to  slip 
forward. 

Banion,  deep  as  he  dared,  at  last  caught  him  by  the 
collar,  turned  up  his  face.  He  was  safe.  Jackson  heard 
the  rescuer's  deep  exclamation,  but  was  busy. 

"Cast  free,  Will,  cast  free  quick,  and  I'll  try  for  the 
horse !" 

He  did  try,  with  the  lengthened  rope,  cast  after  cast, 
paying  little  attention  to  the  work  of  Banion,  who 
dragged  out  his  man  and  bent  over  him  as  he  lay  mo 
tionless  on  the  safe  edge  of  the  treacherous  sunken 
sands  which  still  half  buried  him. 

"No  use !"  exclaimed  the  older  man.  He  ran  to  his 
saddle  and  got  his  deadly  double  barrel,  then  stepped  as 
close  as  possible  to  the  sinking  animal  as  he  could. 
There  came  a  roar.  The  head  of  the  horse  dropped  flat, 
began  to  sink.  "Pore  critter!"  muttered  the  old  man, 
capping  his  reloaded  gun.  He  now  hastened  to  aid 
Banion. 

The  latter  turned  a  set  face  toward  him  and  pointed. 
The  rescued  man  had  opened  his  eyes.  He  reached  now 
convulsively  for  a  tuft  of  grass,  paused,  stared. 

169 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Hit's  Sam  Woodhull !"  ejaculated  the  scout.  Then, 
suddenly,  "Git  away,  Will — move  back !" 

Banion  looked  over  his  shoulder  as  he  stood,  his  own 
hands  and  arms,  his  clothing,  black  with  mire.  The  old 
man's  gray  eye  was  like  a  strange  gem,  gleaming  at  the 
far  end  of  the  deadly  double  tube,  which  was  leveled 
direct  at  the  prostrate  man's  forehead. 

"No !"  Banion's  call  was  quick  and  imperative.  He 
flung  up  a  hand,  stepped  between.  "No!  You'd  kill 
him — now  ?" 

With  a  curse  Jackson  flung  his  gun  from  him,  began 
to  recoil  the  muddied  ropes.  At  length,  without  a  word, 
he  came  to  Banion's  side.  He  reached  down,  caught  an 
arm  and  helped  Banion  drag  the  man  out  on  the  grass. 
He  caught  off  a  handful  of  herbage  and  thrust  it  out  to 
Wroodhull,  who  remained  silent  before  what  seemed 
his  certain  fate. 

"Wipe  off  yore  face,  you  skunk!"  said  the  scout. 
Then  he  seated  himself,  morosely,  hands  before  knees. 

"Will  Banion,"  said  he,  "ye're  a  fool — a  nacherl- 
borned,  congenual,  ingrain  damned  fool!  Ye're  flyin' 
in  the  face  o;  Proverdence,  which  planted  this  critter 
right  here  fer  us  ter  leave  where  no  one'd  ever  be  the 
wiser,  an'  where  he  couldn't  never  do  no  more  devil 
ment.  Ye  id  jit,  leave  me  kill  him,  ef  ye're  too  chicken- 
hearted  yoreself!  Or  leave  us  throw  him  back  in 
again!" 

Banion  would  not  speak  at  first,  though  his  eyes 
never  left  Woodhull's  streaked,  ghastly  face. 

170 


THE  QUICKSANDS 

"By  God!"  said  he  slowly,  at  length,  "if  we  hadn't 
joined  Scott  and  climbed  Chapultepec  together,  I'd  kill 
you  like  a  dog,  right  here !  Shall  I  give  you  one  more 
chance  to  square  things  for  me?  You  know  what  I 
mean!  Will  you  promise?" 

"Promise?"  broke  in  Jackson.  "Ye  damned  fool, 
would  ye  believe  ary  promise  he  made,  even  now  ?  I  tell- 
ee,  boy,  he'll  murder  ye  the  fust  chanct  he  gits  I  He's 
tried  hit  one  night  afore.  Leave  me  cut  his  throat, 
Will !  Ye'll  never  be  safe  ontel  I  do.  Leave  me  cut  his 
throat  er  kill  him  with  a  rock.  Hit's  only  right." 

Banion  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  couldn't,  and  you  must  not." 

"Do  you  promise?"  he  repeated  to  the  helpless  man. 
"Get  up — stand  up !  Do  you  promise — will  you  swear?" 

"Swear?  Hell!"  Jackson  also  rose  as  Woodhull 
staggered  to  his  feet.  "Ye  knew  this  man  orto  kill  ye, 
an*  ye  sneaked  hit,  didn't  ye?  Whar's  yer  gun?" 

"There !"  Woodhull  nodded  to  the  bog,  over  which 
no  object  now  showed.  "I'm  helpless!  I'll  promise! 
I'll  swear!" 

"Then  we'll  not  sound  the  No-quarter  charge  that 
you  and  I  have  heard  the  Spanish  trumpets  blow.  You 
will  remember  the  shoulder  of  a  man  who  fought  with 
you?  You'll  do  what  you  can  now — at  any  cost?" 

"What  cost?"  demanded  Woodhull  thickly. 

Banion's  own  white  teeth  showed  as  he  smiled. 

"What  difference?"  said  he.   "What  odds?" 

"That's  hit!"    Again  Jackson  cut   in,    inexorable. 
171 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Hit's  no  difference  to  him  what  he  sw'ars,  yit  he'd 
bargain  even  now.  Hit's  about  the  gal!" 

"Hush!"  said  Banion  sternly.  "Not  another  word!" 

"Figure  on  what  it  means  to  you."  He  turned  to 
Woodhull.  "I  know  what  it  means  to  me.  I've  got  to 
have  my  own  last  chance,  Woodhull,  and  I'm  saving 
you  for  that  only.  Is  your  last  chance  now  as  good  as 
mine  ?  This  isn't  mercy — I'm  trading  now.  You  know 
what  I  mean." 

,Woodhull  had  freed  his  face  of  the  mud  as  well  as 
he  could.  He  walked  away,  stooped  at  a  trickle  of 
water  to  wash  himself.  Jackson  quietly  rose  and  kicked 
the  shotgun  back  farther  from  the  edge.  Woodhull 
now  was  near  to  Banion's  horse,  which,  after  his  fash 
ion,  always  came  and  stood  close  to  his  master.  The 
butts  of  the  two  dragoon  revolvers  showed  in  their 
holsters  at  the  saddle.  When  he  rose  from  the  muddy 
margin,  shaking  his  hands  as  to  dry  them,  he  walked 
toward  the  horse.  With  a  sudden  leap,  without  a  word, 
he  sprang  beyond  the  horse,  with  a  swift  clutch  at 
both  revolvers,  all  done  with  a  catlike  quickness  not  to 
have  been  predicted.  He  stood  clear  of  the  plunging 
horse,  both  weapons  leveled,  covering  his  two  rescuers. 

"Evener  now !"    His  teeth  bared.    "Promise  me!"- 

Jackson's  deep  curse  was  his  answer.  Banion  rose, 
his  arms  folded. 

"You're  a  liar  and  a  coward,  Sam  F'  said  he.  "Shoot, 
if  you've  got  the  nerve !" 

Incredible,  yet  the  man  was  a  natural  murderer.  His 
172 


THE  QUICKSANDS 

eye  narrowed.  There  came  a  swift  motion,  a  double 
empty  click! 

'Try  again,  Sam !"  said  Banion,  taunting  him.  "Bad 
luck — you  landed  on  an  empty !" 

He  did  try  again.  Swift  as  an  adder,  his  hands 
flung  first  one  and  then  the  other  weapon  into  action. 

Click  after  click,  no  more ;  Jackson  sat  dumb,  expect 
ing  death. 

"They're  all  empty,  Sam,"  said  Banion  at  last  as  the 
murderer  cast  down  the  revolvers  and  stood  with 
spread  hands.  "For  the  first  time,  I  didn't  reload. 
?I  didn't  think  I'd  need  them." 

"You  can't  blame  me !"  broke  out  Woodhull.  "You 
'said  it  was  no  quarter!  Isn't  a  prisoner  justified  in 
trying  to  escape?" 

"You've  not  escaped,"  said  Banion,  coldly  now. 
"Rope  him,  Jackson." 

The  thin,  soft  hide  cord  fell  around  the  man's  neck, 
tightened. 

"Now,"  shrilled  Jackson,  "I'll  give  ye  a  dog's  death !" 

He  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  black  Spaniard,  who  by 
training  had  settled  back,  tightening  the  rope. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A    SECRET    OF    TWO 

CATCHING  the  intention  of  the  maddened  man, 
now  bent  only  on  swift  revenge,  Banion  sprang 
to  the  head  of  his  horse,  flinging  out  an  arm  to 
keep  Jackson  out  of  the  saddle.  The  horse,  frightened 
at  the  stubborn  struggle  between  the  two,  sprang  away. 
\Voodhull  was  pulled  flat  by  the  rope  about  his  neck, 
nor  could  he  loosen  it  now  with  his  hands,  for  the 
horse  kept  steadily  away.  Any  instant  and  he  might  be 
off  in  a  mad  flight,  dragging  the  man  to  his  death. 

"Ho !    Pronto — Vien  aqui !" 

Banion's  command  again  quieted  the  animal.  His 
ears  forward,  he  came  up,  whickering  his  own  query 
as  to  what  really  was  asked  of  him. 

Banion  caught  the  bridle  rein  once  more  and  eased 
the  rope.  Jackson  by  now  had  his  shotgun  and  was 
shouting,  crazed  with  anger.  Woodhull's  life  chance 
was  not  worth  a  bawbee. 

It  was  his  enemy  who  saved  it  once  again,  for  in 
scrutable  but  unaltered  reasons  of  his  own. 

"Drop  that,  Jackson !"  called  Banion.  "Do  as  I  tell 
you !  This  man's  mine !" 

Cursing  himself,  his  friend,  their  captive,  the  horse, 

174 


A  SECRET  OF  TWO 

his  gun  and  all  animate  and  inanimate  Nature  in  his 
blood  rage,  the  old  man,  livid  in  wrath,  stalked  away 
at  length.  "I'll  kill  him  sometime,  ef  ye  don't  yerself !" 
he  screamed,  his  beard  trembling.  "Ye  damned  fool !" 

"Get  up,  Woodhull !"  commanded  Banion.  "You've 
tried  once  more  to  kill  me.  Of  course,  I'll  not  take  any 
oath  or  promise  from  you  now.  You  don't  understand 
such  things.  The  blood  of  a  gentleman  isn't  anywhere 
in  your  strain.  But  I'll  give  you  one  more  chance — 
give  myself  that  chance  too.  There's  only  one  thing 
you  understand.  That's  fear.  Yet  I've  seen  you  on  a 
firing  line,  and  you  started  with  Doniphan's  men.  We 
didn't  know  we  had  a  coward  with  us.  But  you  are  a 
coward. 

"Now  I  leave  you  to  your  fear !  You  know  what  I 
want — more  than  life  it  is  to  me;  but  your  life  is  all  I 
have  to  offer  for  it.  I'm  going  to  wait  till  then. 

"Come  on,  now !  You'll  have  to  walk.  Jackson  won't 
let  you  have  his  horse.  My  own  never  carried  a  woman 
but  once,  and  he's  never  carried  a  coward  at  all.  Jack, 
son  shall  not  have  the  rope.  I'll  not  let  him  kill  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the  prisoner,  not 
without  his  effrontery. 

The  blood  came  back  to  Banion' s  face,  his  control 
breaking. 

"I  mean  for  you  to  walk,  trot,  gallop,  damn  you! 
If  you  don't  you'll  strangle  here  instead  of  somewhere 
else  in  time." 

He  swung  up,  and  Jackson  sullenly  followed. 
175 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Give  me  that  gun/'  ordered  Banion,  and  took  the 
shotgun  and  slung  it  in  the  pommel  loop  of  his  own 
saddle. 

The  gentle  amble  of  the  black  stallion  kept  the  pris 
oner  at  a  trot.  At  times  Banion  checked,  never  looking 
at  the  man  following,  his  hands  at  the  rope,  panting. 

"Ye'll  try  him  in  the  camp  council,  Will?''  began 
Jackson  once  more.  "Anyways  that?  He's  a  murderer. 
He  tried  to  kill  us  both,  an'  he  will  yit.  Boy,  ye  rid 
with  Doniphan,  an'  don't  know  the  ley  refugio  ?  Hasn't 
the  prisoner  tried  to  escape?  Ain't  that  old  as  May- 
heeco  Veeayjio?  Take  this  skunk  in  on  a  good  rope 
like  that?  Boy,  ye're  crazy!" 

"Almost,"  nodded  Banion.  "Almost.  Come  on.  It's 
late." 

It  was  late  when  they  rode  down  into  the  valley  of 
the  Platte.  Below  them  twinkled  hundreds  of  little 
fires  of  the  white  nation,  feasting.  Above,  myriad  stars 
shone  in  a  sky  unbelievably  clear.  On  every  hand  rose 
the  roaring  howls  of  the  great  gray  wolves,  also  feast 
ing  now;  the  lesser  chorus  of  yapping  coyotes.  The 
savage  night  of  the  Plains  was  on.  Through  it  passed 
three  savage  figures,  one  a  staggering,  stumbling  man 
,with  a  rope  around  his  neck.  ,. . 

They  came  into  the  guard  circle,  into  the  dog  circle 
of  the  encampment;  but  when  challenged  answered, 
and  were  not  stopped. 

"Here,  Jackson,"  said  Banion  at  length,  "take  the 
rope.  I'm  going  to  our  camp.  I'll  not  go  into  this  train. 

176 


A  SECRET  OF  TWO 

Take  this  pistol — it's  loaded  now.  Let  off  the  reata, 
walk  close  to  this  man.  If  he  runs,  kill  him.  Find 
Molly  Wingate.  Tell  her  Will  Banion  has  sent  her 
husband  to  her — once  more.  It's  the  last  time." 

He  was  gone  in  the  dark.  Bill  Jackson,  having  first 
meticulously  exhausted  the  entire  vituperative  resources 
of  the  English,  the  Spanish  and  all  the  Indian  lan 
guages  he  knew,  finally  poked  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol 
into  Woodhull's  back. 

"Git,  damn  ye!"  he  commanded.  "Center,  guide! 
Forrerd,  march!  Ye " 

He  improvised  now,  all  known  terms  of  contempt 
having  been  heretofore  employed. 

Threading  the  way  past  many  feast  fires,  he  did  find 
the  Wingate  wagons  at  length,  did  find  Molly  Wingate. 
But  there  his  memory  failed  him.  With  a  skinny  hand 
at  Sam  Woodhull's  collar,  he  flung  him  forward. 

"Here,  Miss  Molly,"  said  he,  "this  thing  is  somethin* 
Major  Banion  sont  in  ter  ye  by  me.  We  find  hit  stuck  in 
the  mud.  He  said  ye're  welcome." 

But  neither  he  nor  Molly  really  knew  why  that  other 
man  had  spared  Sam  Woodhull's  life,  or  what  it  was 
he  awaited  in  return  for  Sam  Woodhull's  life. 

All  that  Jackson  could  do  he  did.  As  he  turned  in 
the  dark  he  implanted  a  heartfelt  kick  which  sent  Sam 
Woodhull  on  his  knees  before  Molly  Wingate  as  she 
stood  in  wondering  silence. 

Then  arose  sudden  clamor  ings  of  those  who  had  seen 
of  this — seen  an  armed  man  assault  another,  un- 
177 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

armed  and  defenseless,  at  their  very  firesides.  Men 
came  running  up.  Jesse  Wingate  came  out  from  the 
side  of  his  wagon. 

"What's  all  this?"  he  demanded.  "Woodhull,  what's 
up  ?  \V  nat's  wrong  here  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AN    ARMISTICE 

TO  the  challenge  of  Wingate  and  his  men 
Jackson  made  answer  with  a  high-pitched  fight 
ing  yell.  Sweeping  his  pistol  muzzle  across  and 
back  again  over  the  front  of  the  closing  line,  he  sprang 
into  saddle  and  wheeled  away. 

"Hit  means  we've  brung  ye  back  a  murderer.  Git 
yer  own  rope — ye  kain't  have  mine!  If  ye-all  want 
trouble  with  Old  Missoury  over  this,  er  anything  else, 
come  runnin'  in  the  mornin*.  Ye'll  find  us  sp'ilin'  fer 
a  fight  r 

He  was  off  in  the  darkness. 

Men  clustered  around  the  draggled  man,  one  of  their 
own  men,  recently  one  in  authority.  Their  indignation 
rose,  well  grounded  on  the  growing  feeling  between 
the  two  segments  of  the  train.  When  Woodhull  had 
told  his  own  story,  in  his  own  way,  some  were  for 
raiding  the  Missouri  detachment  forthwith.  Soberer 
counsel  prevailed.  In  the  morning  Price,  Hall  and 
Kelsey  rode  over  to  the  Missouri  encampment  and  asked 
for  their  leader.  Banion  met  them  while  the  work  of 
breaking  camp  went  on,  the  cattle  herd  being  already 
driven  in  and  held  at  the  rear  by  lank,  youthful  riders, 
themselves  sp'lin'  fer  a  fight. 

"Major  Banion,"  began  Caleb  Price,  "we've  come 
179 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

over  to  get  some  sort  of  understanding  between  your 
men  and  ours.  It  looks  like  trouble.  I  don't  want 
trouble." 

"Nor  do  I,"  rejoined  Banion.  "We  started  out  for 
Oregon  as  friends.  It  seems  to  me  that  should  remain 
our  purpose.  No  little  things  should  alter  that/' 

"Precisely.  But  little  things  have  altered  it.  I  don't 
propose  to  pass  on  any  quarrel  between  you  and  one  of 
our  people — a  man  from  your  own  town,  your  own 
regiment  But  that  has  now  reached  a  point  where  it 
might  mean  open  war  between  two  parts  of  our  train. 
.That  would  mean  ruin.  That's  wrong." 

"Yes,"  replied  Banion,  "surely  it  is.  You  see,  to 
avoid  that,  I  was  just  ordering  my  people  to  pull  out. 
I  doubt  if  we  could  go  on  together  now.  I  don't  want 
war  with  any  friends.  I  reckon  we  can  take  care  of 
any  enemies.  Will  this  please  you?" 

Caleb  Price  held  out  his  hand. 

"Major,  I  don't  know  the  truth  of  any  of  the  things 
I've  heard,  and  I  think  those  are  matters  that  may  be 
settled  later  on.  But  I  am  obliged  to  say  that  many  of 
our  people  trust  you  and  your  leadership  more  than 
they  do  our  own.  I  don't  like  to  see  you  leave." 

"Well,  then  we  won't  leave.  We'll  hold  back  and 
follow  you.  Isn't  that  fair?" 

"It  is  more  than  fair,  for  you  can  go  faster  now  than 
we  can,  like  enough.  But  will  you  promise  me  one 
thing,  sir?" 

"What  is  it?" 

1 80 


AN  ARMISTICE 

'If  we  get  in  trouble  and  send  back  for  you,  will 
you  come?" 

"Yes,  we'll  come.  But  pull  on  out  now,  at  once. 
My  men  want  to  travel.  We've  got  our  meat  slung  on 
lines  along  the  wagons  to  cure  as  we  move.  We'll 
wait  till  noon  for  you." 

"It  is  fair."  Price  turned  to  his  associates.  "Ride 
back,  Kelsey,  and  tell  WIngate  we  all  think  we  should 
break  camp  at  once. 

"You  see,"  he  added  to  Banion,  "he  wouldn't  even 
ride  over  with  us.  I  regret  this  break  between  you  and 
him.  Can't  it  be  mended?" 

A  sudden  spasm  passed  across  Will  Banion's  browned 
face. 

"It  cannot,"  said  he,  "at  least  not  here  and  now.  But 
the  women  and  children  shall  have  no  risk  on  that  ac 
count.  If  we  can  ever  help,  we'll  come." 

The  two  again  shook  hands,  and  the  Wingate  lieuten 
ants  rode  away,  so  ratifying  a  formal  division  of  the 
train. 

"What  do  you  make  of  all  this,  Hall?"  asked  sober- 
going  Caleb  Price  at  last.  "What's  the  real  trouble? 
Is  it  about  the  girl?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  but  maybe  more.  You  heard  what  Wood- 
hull  said.  Even  if  Banion  denied  it,  it  would  be  one 
man's  word  against  the  other's.  Well,  it's  wide  out 
here,  and  no  law." 

"They'll  fight?" 

"Will  two  roosters  that  has  been  breasted?" 
181 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  ROAD  WEST 

CAME  now  once  more  the  notes  of  the  bugle  in 
signal  for  the  assembly.    Word  passed  down 
the    scattered    Wingate  lines,     "Catch     up! 
Catch  up !" 

Riders  went  out  to  the  day  guards  with  orders  to 
round  up  the  cattle.  Dark  lines  of  the  driven  stock 
began  to  dribble  in  from  the  edge  of  the  valley.  One 
by  one  the  corralled  vehicles  broke  park,  swung  front 
or  rear,  until  the  columns  again  held  on  the  beaten  road 
up  the  valley  in  answer  to  the  command,  "Roll  out! 
Roll  out!"  The  Missourians,  long  aligned  and  ready, 
fell  in  far  behind  and  pitched  camp  early.  There  were 
two  trains,  not  one. 

Now,  hour  after  hour  and  day  by  day,  the  toil 
of  the  trail  through  sand  flats  and  dog  towns,  deadly  in 
its  monotony,  held  them  all  in  apathy.  The  light- 
heartedness  of  the  start  in  early  spring  was  gone.  By 
this  time  the  spare  spaces  in  the  wagons  were  kept  filled 
with  meat,  for  always  there  were  buffalo  now.  Lines 
along  the  sides  of  the  wagons  held  loads  of  rudely  made 
jerky — pieces  of  meat  slightly  salted  and  exposed  to 
the  clear  dry  air  to  finish  curing. 

182 


THE  ROAD  WEST 

But  as  the  people  fed  full  there  began  a  curious 
sloughing  off  of  the  social  compact,  a  change  in  per 
sonal  attitude.  A  dozen  wagons,  short  of  supplies  or 
guided  by  faint  hearts,  had  their  fill  of  the  Far  West 
and  sullenly  started  back  east.  Three  dozen  broke  train 
and  pulled  out  independently  for  the  West,  ahead  of 
Wingate,  mule  and  horse  transport  again  rebelling 
against  being  held  back  by  the  ox  teams.  More  and 
more  community  cleavages  began  to  define.  The  curse 
of  flies  by  day,  of  mosquitoes  by  night  added  increasing 
miseries  for  the  travelers.  The  hot  midday  sun  wore 
sore  on  them.  Restless  high  spirits,  grief  over  personal 
losses,  fear  of  the  future,  alike  combined  to  lessen  the 
solidarity  of  the  great  train;  but  still  it  inched  along  on 
its  way  to  Oregon,  putting  behind  mile  after  mile  of  the 
great  valley  of  the  Platte. 

The  grass  now  lay  yellow  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun, 
the  sandy  dust  was  inches  deep  in  the  great  road,  cut  by 
thousands  of  wheels.  Flotsam  and  jetsam,  wreckage, 
showed  more  and  more.  Skeletons  of  cattle,  bodies  not 
yet  skeletons,  aroused  no  more  than  a  casual  look.  Fur 
niture  lay  cast  aside,  even  broken  wagons,  their  wheels 
fallen  apart,  showing  intimate  disaster.  The  actual 
hardships  of  the  great  trek  thrust  themselves  into  evi 
dence  on  every  hand,  at  every  hour.  Often  was  passed 
a  little  cross,  half  buried  in  the  sand,  or  the  tail  gate 
of  a  wagon  served  as  head  board  for  some  ragged  epi 
taph  of  some  ragged  man. 

It  was  decided  to  cross  the  South  Fork  at  the  upper 

184 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

ford,  so  called.  Here  was  pause  again  for  the  Wingate 
train.  The  shallow  and  fickle  stream,  fed  by  the  June 
rise  in  the  mountains,  now  offered  a  score  of  channels, 
all  treacherous.  A  long  line  of  oxen,  now  wading  and 
now  swimming,  dragging  a  long  rope  to  which  a  chain 
was  rigged — the  latter  to  pull  the  wagon  forward  when 
the  animals  got  footing  on  ahead — made  a  constant 
sight  for  hours  at  a  time.  One  wagon  after  another  was 
snaked  through  rapidly  as  possible.  Once  bogged  down 
in  a  fast  channel,  the  fluent  sand  so  rapidly  rilled  in  the 
spokes  that  the  settling  wagon  was  held  as  though  in  a 
giant  vise.  It  was  new  country,  new  work  for  them 
all;  but  they  were  Americans  of  the  frontier. 

The  men  were  in  the  water  all  day  long,  for  four 
days,  swimming,  wading,  digging.  Perhaps  the  first 
plow  furrow  west  of  the  Kaw  was  cast  when  some 
plows  eased  down  the  precipitous  bank  which  fronted 
one  of  the  fording  places.  Beyond  that  lay  no  mark 
of  any  plow  for  more  than  a  thousand  miles. 

They  now  had  passed  the  Plains,  as  first  they  crossed 
the  Prairie.  The  thin  tongue  of  land  between  the  two 
forks,  known  as  the  Highlands  of  the  Platte,  made 
vestibule  to  the  mountains.  The  scenery  began  to 
change,  to  become  rugged,  semi-mountainous.  They 
noted  and  held  in  sight  for  a  day  the  Courthouse  Rock, 
the  Chimney  Rock,  long  known  to  the  fur  traders,  and 
opened  up  wide  vistas  of  desert  architecture  new  to 
their  experiences. 

They  were  now  amid  great  and  varied  abundance  of 
184 


THE  ROAD  WEST 

game.  A  thousand  buffalo,  five,  ten,  might  be  in  sight 
at  one  time,  and  the  ambition  of  every  man  to  kill  his 
buffalo  long  since  had  been  gratified.  Black-tailed  deer 
and  antelope  were  common,  and  even  the  mysterious 
bighorn  sheep  of  which  some  of  them  had  read.  Each 
tributary  stream  now  had  its  delicious  mountain  trout. 
The  fires  at  night  had  abundance  of  the  best  of  food, 
cooked  for  the  most  part  over  the  native  fuel  of  the 
bois  des  v aches. 

The  grass  showed  yet  shorter,  proving  the  late  pre 
sence  of  the  toiling  Mormon  caravan  on  ahead.  The 
weather  of  late  June  was  hot,  the  glare  of  the  road 
blinding.  The  wagons  began  to  fall  apart  in  the  dry, 
absorbent  air  of  the  high  country.  And  always  skele 
tons  lay  along  the  trail.  An  ox  abandoned  by  its  owners 
as  too  footsore  for  further  travel  might  better  hare 
been  shot  than  abandoned.  The  gray  wolves  would 
surely  pull  it  down  before  another  day.  Continuously 
such  tragedies  of  the  wilderness  went  OQ  before  their 
wearying  eyes. 

Breaking  down  from  the  highlands  through  the  Ash 
Hollow  gap,  the  train  felt  its  way  to  the  level  of  the 
North  Fork  of  the  great  river  which  had  led  them  for 
so  long.  Here  some  trapper  once  had  built  a  cabin — 
the  first  work  of  the  sort  in  six  hundred  miles — and  by 
some  strange  concert  this  deserted  cabin  had  years 
earlier  been  constituted  a  post  office  of  the  desert.  Hun 
dreds  of  letters,  bundles  of  papers  were  addressed  to 
people  all  over  the  world,  east  and  west.  No  govern- 

185 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

ment  recognized  this  office,  no  postage  was  employed 
in  it.  Only,  in  the  hope  that  someone  passing  east  or 
west  would  carry  on  the  inclosures  without  price,  folk 
here  sent  out  their  souls  into  the  invisible. 

"How  far'll  we  be  out,  at  Laramie?"  demanded 
Molly  Wingate  of  the  train  scout,  Bridger,  whom  Ban- 
ion  had  sent  on  to  Wingate  in  spite  of  his  protest. 

"Nigh  onto  six  hundred  an*  sixty-seven  mile  they 
call  hit,  ma'am,  from  Independence  to  Laramie,  an* 
we'll  be  two  months  a-makin'  hit,  which  everges  around 
ten  mile  a  day." 

"But  it's  most  to  Oregon,  hain't  it?" 

"Most  to  Oregon?  Ma'am,  it's  nigh  three  hundred 
mile  beyond  Laramie  to  the  South  Pass,  an'  the  South 
Pass  hain't  half-way  to  Oregon,  ^hy,  ma'am,  we  ain't 
well  begun  1" 


CHAPTER  XXY 

OLD   LARAMIE 

AN  old  gray  man  in  buckskins  sat  on  the 
ground  in  the  shade  of  the  adobe  stockade  at 
old  Fort  Laramie,  his  knees  high  in  front  of 
him,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  His  hair  fell  over 
his  shoulders  in  long  curls  which  had  once  been  brown. 
His  pointed  beard  fell  on  his  breast.  He  sat  silent  and 
motionless,  save  that  constantly  he  twisted  a  curl  around 
a  forefinger,  over  and  over  again.  It  was  his  way.  He 
was  a  long-hair,  a  man  of  another  day.  He  had  seen 
the  world  change  in  six  short  years,  since  the  first 
wagon  crossed  yonder  ridges,  where  now  showed  yet 
one  more  wagon  train  approaching. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  the  debris  and  discard  of  this 
new  day  which  lay  all  about  him  as  he  sat  and  dreamed 
of  the  days  of  trap  and  packet.  Near  at  hand  were 
pieces  of  furniture  leaning  against  the  walls,  not  bought 
or  sold,  but  abandoned  as  useless  here  at  Laramie. 
Wagon  wheels,  tireless,  their  fellies  falling  apart,  lay 
on  the  ground,  and  other  ruins  of  great  wagons,  dried 
and  disjointed  now. 

Dust  lay  on  the  ground.   The  grass  near  by  was  all 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

cropped  short  Far  off,  a  village  of  the  Cheyennes, 
come  to  trade,  and  sullen  over  the  fact  that  little  now 
could  be  had  for  robes  or  peltries,  grazed  their  ponies 
aside  from  the  white  man's  road.  Six  hundred  lodges 
of  the  Sioux  were  on  the  tributary  river  a  few  miles 
distant.  The  old  West  was  making  a  last  gallant  stand 
at  Laramie, 

Inside  the  gate  a  mob  of  white  men,  some  silent  and 
businesslike,  many  drunken  and  boisterous,  pushed 
here  and  there  for  access  to  the  trading  shelves,  long 
since  almost  bare  of  goods.  Six  thousand  emigrants 
passed  that  year. 

It  was  the  Fourth  of  July  in  Old  Lararnie,  and  men 
in  jeans  and  wool  and  buckskin  were  celebrating.  Old 
Laramie  had  seen  life — all  of  life,  since  the  fur  days  of 
La  Ramee  in  1821.  Having  now  superciliously  sold  out 
to  these  pilgrims,  reserving  only  alcohol  enough  for  its 
own  consumption,  Old  Laramie  was  willing  to  let  the 
world  wag,  and  content  to  twiddle  a  man  curl  around 
a  finger. 

But  yet  another  detachment  of  the  great  army  follow 
ing  the  hegira  of  the  Mormons  was  now  approaching 
Laramie.  In  the  warm  sun  of  mid-morning,  its  worn 
wheels  rattling,  its  cattle  limping  and  with  lolling 
tongues,  this  caravan  forded  and  swung  wide  into  cor 
ral  below  the  crowded  tepees  of  the  sullen  tribesmen. 

Ahead  of  it  now  dashed  a  horseman,  swinging  his 
rifle  over  his  head  and  uttering  Indian  yells.  He  pulled 
up  at  the  very  door  of  the  old  adobe  guard  tower  with 

1 88 


OLD  LARAMIE 

its  mounted  swivel  guns ;  swung  off,  pushed  on  into  the 
honeycomb  of  the  inner  structure. 

The  famous  border  fortress  was  built  around  a 
square,  the  living  quarters  on  one  side,  the  trading 
rooms  on  another.  Few  Indians  were  admitted  at  one 
time,  other  than  the  Indian  wives  of  the  engages,  the 
officials  of  the  fur  company  or  of  the  attached  white  or 
half  breed  hunters.  Above  some  of  the  inner  buildings 
were  sleeping  lofts.  The  inner  open  space  served  as  a 
general  meeting  ground.  Indolent  but  on  guard,  Old 
Laramie  held  her  watch,  a  rear  guard  of  the  passing 
West  in  its  wild  days  before  the  plow. 

All  residents  here  knew  Jim  Bridger.  He  sought  out 
the  man  in  charge, 

"How,  Bordeaux?"  he  began.  "Whar's  the  bour 
geois,  Papin?" 

"Down  river — h'east  h'after  goods." 

The  trader,  hands  on  his  little  counter,  nodded  to  his 
shelves. 

"Nada!"  he  said  in  his  polyglot  speech.  "Hi'll  not 
got  a  damned  thing  lef .  How  many  loads  you'll  got 
for  your  h'own  post,  Jeem?" 

"Eight  wagons.    Iron,  flour  and  bacon." 

"Hi'll  pay  ye  double  here  what  you'll  kin  git  retail 
there,  Jeem,  and  take  it  h'all  h'off  your  hand.  This 
h'emigrant,  she'll  beat  the  fur." 

"I'll  give  ye  half,"  said  Bridger.  "Thar's  people  here 
needs  supplies  that  ain't  halfway  acrost.  But  what's  the 
news,  Bordeaux?  Air  the  Crows  down?" 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"H'on  the  Sweetwater,  h'awaitin*  for  the  peelgrim, 
Hi'll  heard  of  your  beeg  fight  on  the  Platte.  Plenty 
beeg  fight  on  ahead,  too,  maybe-so.  You'll  bust  h'up  the 
trade,  Jeem.  My  Sioux,  she's  scare  to  come  h'on  the 
post  h'an'  trade.  He'll  stay  h'on  the  veelage,  her." 

"Every  dog  to  his  own  yard.    Is  that  all  the  news  ?" 

"Five  thousand  Mormons,  he'll  gone  by  h'aready. 
H'womans  pullin*  the  han'cart,  sacre  Enfant!  News 
— you'll  h'ought  to  know  the  news.  You'll  been  h'on 
the  settlement  six  mont' !" 

"Hit  seemed  six  year.  The  hull  white  nation's 
movin'.  So.  That  all?" 

"Well,  go  h'ask  Keet.  He's  come  h'up  South  Fork 
yesterdays.  Maybe-so  quelq*  cho'  des  nouvelles  h'out 
\Vest.  I  dunno,  me." 

"Kit— Kit  Carson,  you  mean?  What's  Kit  doing 
here?" 

"Oui.   I  dunno,  me." 

He  nodded  to  a  door.  Bridger  pushed  past  him. 
In  an  inner  room  a  party  of  border  men  were  playing 
cards  at  a  table.  Among  these  was  a  slight,  sandy- 
haired  man  of  middle  age  and  mild,  blue  eye.  It  was 
indeed  Carson,  the  redoubtable  scout  and  guide,  a  better 
man  even  than  Bridger  in  the  work  of  the  wilderness. 

"How  are  you,  Jim?"  he  said  quietly,  reaching  up 
a  hand  as  he  sat.  "Haven't  seen  you  for  five  years. 
What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

He  rose  now  and  put  down  his  cards.  The  game 
broke  up.  Others  gathered  around  Bridger  and 

190 


OLD  LARAMIE 

greeted  him.  It  was  some  time  before  the  two  mountain 
men  got  apart  from  the  others. 

"What  brung  ye  north,  Kit?"  demanded  Bridger  at 
length.  "You  was  in  Calif orny  in  '47,  with  the 
General." 

"Yes,  I  was  in  California  this  spring.  The  treaty's 
been  signed  with  Mexico.  We  get  the  country  from  the 
Rio  Grande  west,  including  California.  I'm  carrying 
dispatches  to  General  Kearny  at  Leavenworth.  There's 
talk  about  taking  over  Laramie  for  an  Army  post.  The 
tribes  are  up  in  arms.  The  trade's  over,  Jim." 

"What  I  know,  an'  have  been  sayin' !  Let's  have  a 
drink,  Kit,  fer  old  times." 

Laughing,  Carson  turned  his  pockets  inside  out.  As 
he  did  so  something  heavy  fell  from  his  pocket  to  the 
floor.  In  courtesy  as  much  as  curiosity  Bridger  stooped 
first  to  pick  it  up.  As  he  rose  he  saw  Carson's  face 
change  as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"What's  this  stone,  Kit— yer  medicine?" 

But  Bridger's  own  face  altered  suddenly  as  he  now 
guessed  the  truth.  He  looked  about  him  suddenly,  his 
mouth  tight  Kit  Carson  rose  and  they  passed  from 
the  room. 

"Only  one  thing  heavy  as  that,  Mister  Kit!"  said 
Bridger  fiercely.  "Where'd  you  git  hit  ?  My  gran'pap 
had  some  o'  that.  Hit  come  from  North  Carliny  years 
ago.  I  know  what  hit  is — hit's  gold !  Kit  Carson,  damn 
ye,  hit's  the  gold!" 

"Shut  your  mouth,  you  fool !"  said  Carson.  "Yes, 
191 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

it's  gold.  But  do  you  want  me  to  be  a  liar  to  my  Gen 
eral?  That's  part  of  my  dispatches." 

"Hit  come  from  Calif orny?" 

"Curse  me,  yes,  California!  I  was  ordered  to  get  the 
news  to  the  Army  first.  You're  loose-tongued,  Jim. 
Can  you  keep  this?" 

"Like  a  grave,  Kit." 

'Then  here!" 

Carson  felt  inside  his  shirt  and  pulled  out  a  meager 
and  ill-printed  sheet  which  told  the  most  epochal  news 
that  this  or  any  country  has  known — the  midwinter  dis 
covery  of  gold  at  Sutter's  Mills. 

A  flag  was  flying  over  Laramie  stockade,  and  this  flag 
the  mountain  men  saw  fit  to  salute  with  many  libations, 
hearing  now  that  it  was  to  fly  forever  over  California 
as  over  Oregon.  Crowding  the  stockade  inclosure  fuK 
was  a  motley  throng — border  men  in  buckskins,  en 
gages  swart  as  Indians,  French  breeds,  full-blood  Chey- 
ennes  and  Sioux  of  the  northern  hills,  all  mingling  with 
the  curious  emigrants  who  had  come  in  from  the  wagon 
camps.  Plump  Indian  girls,  many  of  them  very  comely, 
some  of  them  wives  of  the  trappers  who  still  hung  about 
Laramie,  ogled  the  newcomers,  laughing,  giggling  to 
gether  as  young  women  of  any  color  do,  their  black  hair 
sleek  with  oil,  their  cheeks  red  with  vermilion,  their 
wrists  heavy  with  brass  or  copper  or  pinchbeck  circlets, 
their  small  moccasined  feet  peeping  beneath  gaudy 
calico  given  them  by  their  white  lords.  Older  squaws, 
envious  but  perforce  resigned,  muttered  as  their  own 

192 


OLD  LARAMIE 

stern- faced  stolid  red  masters  ordered  them  to  keep 
close.  Of  the  full-bloods,  whether  Sioux  or  Cheyennes, 
only  those  drunk  were  other  than  sullenly  silent  and 
resentful  as  they  watched  the  white  man's  orgy  at  Old 
Laramie  on  the  Fourth  of  July  of  1848. 

Far  flung  along  the  pleasant  valley  lay  a  vast  picture 
possible  in  no  other  land  or  day.  The  scattered  covered 
wagons,  the  bands  of  cattle  and  horses,  the  white  tents 
rising  now  in  scores,  the  blue  of  many  fires,  all  proved 
that  now  the  white  man  had  come  to  fly  his  flag  over  a 
new  frontier. 

Bridger  stood,  chanting  an  Indian  song.  A  group  of 
men  came  out,  all  excited  with  patriotic  drink.  A  tall 
man  in  moccasins  led,  his  fringed  shirt  open  over  a 
naked  breast,  his  voung  squaw  following  him. 

"Let  me  see  one  o'  them  damned  things!"  he  was 
exclaiming.  "That's  why  I  left  home  fifty  year  ago. 
Pap  wanted  to  make  me  plow !  I  ain't  seed  one  since, 
but  I'll  bet  a  pony  I  kin  run  her  right  now !  Go  git  yer 
plow  things,  boys,  an'  fotch  on  ary  sort  of  cow  critter 
suits  ye.  I'll  bet  I  kin  hook  'em  up  an'  plow  with  'em, 
too,  right  yere !" 

The  old  gray  man  at  the  gate  sat  and  twisted  his  long 
curls. 

The  sweet  wind  of  the  foothills  blew  aslant  the 
smokes  of  a  thousand  fires.  Over  the  vast  landscape 
passed  many  moving  figures.  Young  Indian  men,  mostly 
Sioux,  some  Cheyennes,  a  few  Gros  Ventres  of  the 
Prairie,  all  peaceable  under  the  tacit  truce  of  the  trading 

193 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

post,  rode  out  from  their  villages  to  their  pony  herds. 
From  the  post  came  the  occasional  note  of  an  inhar 
monic  drum,  struck  without  rhythm  by  a  hand  gone 
lax.  The  singers  no  longer  knew  they  sang.  The  border 
feast  had  lasted  long.  Keg  after  keg  had  been  broached. 
The  Indian  drums  were  going.  Came  the  sound  of 
monotonous  chants,  broken  with  staccato  yells  as  the 
border  dance,  two  races  still  mingling,  went  on  with 
aboriginal  excesses  on  either  side.  On  the  slopes  as 
dusk  came  twinkled  countless  tepee  fires.  Dogs  barked 
mournfully  a-distant.  The  heavy  half  roar  of  the  buf 
falo  wolves,  superciliously  confident,  echoed  from  the 
broken  country. 

Now  and  again  a  tall  Indian,  naked  save  where  he 
clutched  his  robe  to  him  unconsciously,  came  staggering 
to  his  tepee,  his  face  distorted,  yelling  obscene  words 
and  not  knowing  what  he  said.  Patient,  his  youngest 
squaw  stood  by  his  tepee,  his  spear  held  aloft  to  mark 
his  door  plate,  waiting  for  her  lord  to  come.  Wolfish 
dogs  lay  along  the  tepee  edges,  noses  in  tails,  eyeing  the 
master  cautiously.  A  grumbling  old  woman  mended 
the  fire  at  her  own  side  of  the  room,  nearest  the  door, 
spreading  smooth  robes  where  the  man's  medicine  hung 
at  the  willow  tripod,  his  slatted  lazyback  near  by.  In 
due  time  all  would  know  whether  at  the  game  of 
"hands,"  while  the  feast  went  on,  the  little  elusive  bone 
had  won  or  lost  for  him.  Perhaps  he  had  lost  his 
horses,  his  robes,  his  weapons — his  squaws.  The  white 

194 


OLD  LARAMIE 

man's  medicine  was  strong,  and  there  was  much  of  it 
on  his  feasting  day. 

From  the  stockade  a  band  of  mounted  Indians,  brave 
in  new  finery,  decked  with  eagle  bonnets  and  gaudy  in 
beaded  shirts  and  leggings,  rode  out  into  the  slopes, 
chanting  maudlin  songs.  They  were  led  by  the  most 
beautiful  young  woman  of  the  tribe,  carrying  a  wand 
topped  by  a  gilded  ball,  and  ornamented  with  bells, 
feathers,  natural  flowers.  As  the  wild  pageant  passed 
the  proud  savages  paid  no  attention  to  the  white  men. 

The  old  gray  man  at  the  gate  sat  and  twisted  his 
long  curls. 

And  none  of  them  knew  the  news  from  California. 


nr 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    FIRST    GOLD 

HE  purple  mantle  of  the  mountain  twilight  was 
dropping  on  the  hills  when  Bridger  and  Car- 

-*-  son  rode  out  together  from  the  Laramie  stock 
ade  to  the  Wingate  encampment  in  the  valley.  The  ex 
traordinary  capacity  of  Bridger  in  matters  alcoholic 
left  him  still  in  fair  possession  of  his  faculties ;  but  some 
new  purpose,  born  of  the  exaltation  of  alcohol,  now 
held  his  mind. 

"Let  me  see  that  little  dingus  ye  had,  Kit,"  said  he — 
"that  piece  o'  gold." 

Carson  handed  it  to  him. 

"Ye  got  any  more  o'  hit,  Kit?" 

"Plenty!  You  can  have  it  if  you'll  promise  not  to 
tell  where  it  came  from,  Jim." 

"If  I  do,  Jim  Bridget's  a  liar,  Kit!" 

He  slipped  the  nugget  into  his  pocket.  They  rode 
to  the  head  of  the  train,  where  Bridger  found  Wingate 
and  his  aids,  and  presented  his  friend.  They  all,  of 
course,  knew  of  Fremont's  famous  scout,  then  at  the 
height  of  his  reputation,  and  greeted  him  with  enthu 
siasm.  As  they  gathered  around  him  Bridger  slipped 
away.  Searching  among  the  wagons,  he  at  last  found 
Molly  Wingate  and  beckoned  her  aside  with  portentous 
injunctions  of  secrecy. 

196 


THE  FIRST  GOLD 

In  point  of  fact,  a  sudden  maudlin  inspiration  had 
seized  Jim  Bridger,  so  that  a  promise  to  Kit  Carson 
seemed  infinitely  less  important  than  a  promise  to  this 
girl,  whom,  indeed,  with  an  old  man's  inept  infatuation, 
he  had  worshiped  afar  after  the  fashion  of  white  men 
long  gone  from  society  of  their  kind.  Liquor  now 
made  him  bold.  Suddenly  he  reached  out  a  hand  and 
placed  in  Molly's  palm  the  first  nugget  of  California 
gold  that  ever  had  come  thus  far  eastward.  Physically 
heavy  it  was;  of  what  tremendous  import  none  then 
could  have  known. 

•'Til  give  ye  this!"  he  said.  "An'  I  know  whar's 
plenty  more." 

She  dropped  the  nugget  because  of  the  sudden  weight 
in  her  hand ;  picked  it  up 

"Gold!"  she  whispered,  for  there  is  no  mistaking 
gold. 

"Yes,  gold!" 

"Where  did  you  get  it?" 

She  was  looking  over  her  shoulder  instinctively. 

"Listen!  Ye'll  never  tell?  Ye  mustn't!  I  swore  to 
Kit  Carson,  that  give  hit  to  me,  I'd  never  tell  no  one. 
But  I'll  set  you  ahead  o'  any  livin'  bein',  so  maybe  some 
day  ye'll  remember  old  Jim  Bridger. 

"Yes,  hit's  gold!  Kit  Carson  brung  it  from  Sutter's 
Fort,  on  the  Sacramenty,  in  Calif orny.  They've  got  it 
thar  in  wagonloads.  Kit's  on  his  way  east  now  to  tell 
the  Army!" 

"Everyone  will  know!" 

197 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Yes,  but  not  now !  Ef  ye  breathe  this  to  a  soul, 
thar  won't  be  two  wagons  left  together  in  the  train. 
Thar'll  be  bones  o'  womern  from  here  to  Californy!" 

Wide-eyed,  the  girl  stood,  weighing  the  nugget  in  her 
hands. 

"Keep  hit,  Miss  Molly,"  said  Bridger  simply.  "I 
don't  want  hit  no  more.  I  only  got  hit  fer  a  bracelet 
fer  ye,  or  something.  Good-by.  I've  got  to  leave  the 
train  with  my  own  wagons  afore  long  an'  head  fer  my 
fort.  Ye'll  maybe  see  me — old  Jim  Bridger — when  ye 
come  through. 

"Yes,  Miss  Molly,  I  ain't  as  old  as  I  look,  and  I  got  a 
fort  o'  my  own  beyant  the  Green  River.  This  year,  what 
I'll  take  in  for  my  cargo,  what  I'll  make  cash  money  fer 
work  fer  the  immygrints,  I'll  salt  down  anyways  ten 
thousand;  next  year  maybe  twicet  that,  or  even  more. 
I  sartainly  will  do  a  good  trade  with  them  Mormons." 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  girl,  patient  with  what  she 
knew  was  alcoholic  garrulity. 

"An*  out  there's  the  purtiest  spot  west  o'  the  Rockies. 
My  valley  is  ever 'thing  a  man  er  a  womern  can  ask  or 
want.  And  me,  I'm  a  permanent  man  in  these  yere 
parts.  It's  me,  Jim  Bridger,  that  fust  diskivered  the 
Great  Salt  Lake.  It's  me,  Jim  Bridger,  fust  went 
through  Colter's  Hell  up  in  the  Yellowstone.  Ain't  a 
foot  o'  the  Rockies  I  don't  know.  I  eena-most  built  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  me."  He  spread  out  his  hands. 
"And  I've  got  to  be  eena'most  all  Injun  myself." 

"I  suppose."  The  girl's  light  laugh  cut  him. 


THE  FIRST  GOLD 

"But  never  so  much  as  not  to  rever'nce  the  white 
woman,  Miss  Molly.  Ye're  all  like  angels  to  us  wild 
men  out  yere.  We — we  never  have  forgot.  And  so  I 
give  ye  this,  the  fust  gold  from  Calif orny.  There  may 
be  more.  I  don't  know." 

"But  you're  going  to  leave  us?  What  are  you  going 
to  do?"  A  sudden  kindness  was  in  the  girl's  voice. 

"I'm  a-goin'  out  to  Fort  Bridger,  that's  what  I'm 
a-goin'  to  do ;  an*  when  I  git  thar  I'm  a-goin'  to  lick  hell 
out  o'  both  my  squaws,  that's  what  I'm  a-goin'  to  do ! 
One's  named  Blast  Yore  Hide,  an*  t'other  Dang  Yore 
Eyes.  Which,  ef  ye  ask  me,  is  two  names  right  an' 
fitten,  way  I  feel  now." 

All  at  once  Jim  Bridger  was  all  Indian  again.  He 
turned  and  stalked  away.  She  heard  his  voice  rising  in 
his  Indian  chant  as  she  turned  back  to  her  own  wagon 
fire. 

But  now  shouts  were  arising,  cries  coming  up  the 
line.  A  general  movement  was  taking  place  toward  the 
lower  end  of  the  camp,  where  a  high  quavering  call 
rose  again  and  again. 

"There's  news!"  said  Carson  to  Jesse  Wingate 
quietly.  "That's  old  Bill  Jackson's  war  cry,  unless  I  am 
mistaken.  Is  he  with  you?" 

"He  was,"  said  Wingate  bitterly.  "He  and  his 
friends  broke  away  from  the  train  and  have  been  flock 
ing  by  themselves  since  then." 

Three  men  rode  up  to  the  Wingate  wagon,  and  two 
flung  off.  Jackson  was  there,  yes,  and  Jed  Wingate, 

199 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

his  son.  The  third  man  still  sat  his  horse.  Wingate 
straightened. 

"Mr.  Banion !  So  you  see  fit  to  come  into  my  camp  ?" 
For  the  time  he  had  no  answer. 

"How  are  you,  Bill?"  said  Kit  Carson  quietly,  as  he 
now  stepped  forward  from  the  shadows.  The  older 
man  gave  him  a  swift  glance. 

"Kit!  You  here — why?"  he  demanded.  "I've  not 
seed  ye,  Kit,  sence  the  last  Rendyvous  on  the  Green. 
Ye've  been  with  the  Army  on  the  coast?" 

"Yes.     Going  east  now." 

"Allus  ridin'  back  and  forerd  acrost  the  hull  country. 
I'd  hate  to  keep  ye  in  buckskin  breeches,  Kit.  But  ye're 
carryin'  news?" 

"Yes,"  said  Carson.  "Dispatches  about  new  Army 
posts — to  General  Kearny.  Some  other  word  for  him, 
and  some  papers  to  the  Adjutant  General  of  the  Army. 
Besides,  some  letters  from  Lieutenant  Beale  in  Mexico, 
about  war  matters  and  the  treaty,  like  enough.  You 
know,  we'll  get  all  the  southern  country  to  the  Coast?" 

"An'  welcome  ef  we  didn't!  Not  a  beaver  to  the 
thousand  miles,  Kit.  I'm  goin'  to  Oregon — goin'  to 
settle  in  the  Nez  Perce  country,  whar  there's  horses 
an'  beaver." 

"But  wait  a  bit  afore  you  an'  me  gits  too  busy  talkin'. 
Ye  see,  I'm  with  Major  Banion,  yan,  an'  the  Missoury 
train.  We're  in  camp  ten  mile  below.  We  wouldn't 
mix  with  these  people  no  more — only  one  way — but  I 
reckon  the  Major's  got  some  business  o'  his  own  that 

200 


THE  FIRST  GOLD 

brung  him  up.  I  rid  with  him.  We  met  the  boy  an*  ast 
him  to  bring  us  in.  We  wasn't  sure  how  friendly  our 
friends  is  feelin'  towards  him  an'  me." 

He  grinned  grimly.  As  he  spoke  they  both  heard 
a  woman's  shrilling,  half  greeting,  half  terror.  Wingate 
turned  in  time  to  see  his  daughter  fall  to  the  ground  in 
a  sheer  faint. 

Will  Banion  slipped  from  his  saddle  and  hurried 
forward. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

TWO    WHO    LOVED 

JESSE  WINGATE  made  a  swift  instinctive  mo- 
tion  toward  the  revolver  which  swung  at  his  hip. 
But  Jed  sprang  between  him  and  Banion. 

"No!  Hold  on,  Pap—stop !"  cried  Jed.  "It's  all 
right.  I  brought  him  in. 

"As  a  prisoner?" 

"I  am  no  man's  prisoner,  Captain  iWingate,"  said 
Banion's  deep  voice. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  beyond  the  man  to  whom  he 
spoke.  He  saw  Molly,  to  whom  her  mother  now  ran, 
to  take  the  white  face  in  her  own  hands.  Wingate 
looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Why  do  you  come  here  ?  What  do  I  owe  you  that 
you  should  bring  more  trouble,  as  you  always  have? 
And  what  do  you  owe  me?" 

"I  owe  you  nothing!"  said  Banion.  "You  owe  me 
nothing  at  all.  I  have  not  traveled  in  your  train,  and 
I  shall  not  travel  in  it.  I  tell  you  once  more,  you're 
wrong  in  your  beliefs;  but  till  I  can  prove  that  I'll 
not  risk  any  argument  about  it." 

"Then  why  do  you  come  to  my  camp  now  ?" 

"You  should  know." 

202 

I 


TWO  WHO  LOVED 

"I  do  know.    It's  Molly!" 

"It's  Molly,  yes.  Here's  a  letter  from  her.  I  found 
it  in  the  cabin  at  Ash  Hollow.  Your  friend  Woodhull 
could  have  killed  me — we  passed  him  just  now.  Jed 
could  have  killed  me — you  can  now;  it's  easy.  But 
that  wouldn't  change  me.  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  change 
her." 

"You  come  here  to  face  me  down?" 

"No,  sir.  I  know  you  for  a  brave  man,  at  least.  I 
don't  believe  I'm  a  coward — I  never  asked.  But  I 
came  to  see  Molly,  because  here  she's  asked  it.  I  don't 
know  why.  Do  you  want  to  shoot  me  like  a  coyote?" 

"No.    But  I  ask  you,  what  do  I  owe  you  ?" 

"Nothing.  But  can  we  trade?  If  I  promise  to 
leave  you  with  my  train  ?" 

"You  want  to  steal  my  girl !" 

"No !    I  want  to  earn  her — some  day." 

The  old  Roman  before  him  was  a  man  of  quick 
and  strong  decisions.  The  very  courage  of  the  young 
man  had  its  appeal. 

"At  least  you'll  eat,"  said  he.  "I'd  not  turn  even  a 
black  Secesh  away  hungry — not  even  a  man  with  your 
record  in  the  Army." 

"No,  I'll  not  eat  with  you." 

"Wait  then!  I'll  send  the  girl  pretty  soon,  if  you 
are  here  by  her  invitation.  I'll  see  she  never  invites 
you  again." 

Wingate  walked  toward  his  wagon.  Banion  kept 
out  of  the  light  circle  and  found  his  horse.  He  stood, 

203 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

leaning  his  head  on  his  arms  in  the  saddle,  waiting, 
until  after  what  seemed  an  age  she  slipped  out  of  the 
darkness,  almost  into  his  arms,  standing  pale,  her 
fingers  lacing  and  unlacing — the  girl  who  had  kissed 
him  once — to  say  good-by. 

"Will  Banion!"  she  whispered.  "Yes,  I  sent  for 
you.  I  felt  you'd  find  the  letter.'1 

"Yes,  Molly."  It  was  long  before  he  would  look  at 
her.  "You're  the  same,"  said  he.  "Only  you've  grown 
more  beautiful  every  day.  It's  hard  to  leave  you — 
awfully  hard.  I  couldn't,  if  I  saw  you  often." 

He  reached  out  again  and  took  her  in  his  arms, 
softly,  kissed  her  tenderly  on  each  cheek,  whispered 
things  that  lovers  do  say.  But  for  his  arms  she  would 
have  dropped  again,  she  was  so  weak.  She  fought 
him  off  feebly. 

"No!  No!  It  is  not  right!  No!  No!" 

"You're  not  going  to  be  with  us  any  more  ?"  she  said 
at  last. 

He  shook  his  head.  They  both  looked  at  his  horse, 
his  rifle,  swung  in  its  sling  strap  at  the  saddle  horn. 
She  shook  her  head  also. 

"Is  this  the  real  good-by,  Will?"  Her  lips  trem 
bled. 

"It  must  be.  I  have  given  my  word  to  your  father. 
But  why  did  you  send  for  me?  Only  to  torture  me? 
I  must  keep  my  word  to  hold  my  train  apart.  I've 
promised  my  men  to  stick  with  them." 

"Yes,  you  mustn't  break  your  word.  And  it  was 
204 


TWO  WHO  LOVED 

fine  just  to  see  you  a  minute,  Will;  just  to  tell  you — 
oh,  to  say  I  love  you,  Will !  But  I  didn't  think  that  was 
why  I  sent.  I  sent  to  warn  you — against  him.  It 
seems  always  to  come  to  the  same  thing." 

She  was  trying  not  to  sob.  The  man  was  in  but 
little  better  case.  The  stars  did  not  want  them  to  part. 
All  the  somber  wilderness  world  whispered  for  them 
to  love  and  not  to  part  at  all.  But  after  a  time  they 
knew  that  they  again  had  parted,  or  now  were  able 
to  do  so. 

"Listen,  Will,"  said  the  girl  at  last,  putting  back  a 
lock  of  her  fallen  hair.  "I'll  have  to  tell  you.  We'll 
meet  in  Oregon  ?  I'll  be  married  then.  I've  promised. 
Oh,  God  help  me!  I  think  I'm  the  wickedest  woman 
in  all  the  world,  and  the  most  unhappy.  Oh,  Will 
Banion,  I — I  love  a  thief!  Even  as  you  are,  I  love 
you!  I  guess  that's  why  I  sent  for  you,  after  all. 

"Go  find  the  scout — Jim  Bridger!"  she  broke  out 
suddenly.  "He's  going  on  ahead.  Go  on  to  his  fort 
with  him — he'll  have  wagons  and  horses.  He  knows 
the  way.  Go  with  Bridger,  Will!  Don't  go  to  Ore 
gon!  I'm  afraid  for  you.  Go  to  California — and 
forget  me !  Tell  Bridger " 

"Why,  where  is  it?"  she  exclaimed. 

She  was  feeling  in  the  pocket  of  her  apron,  and  it 
was  empty. 

"I've  lost  it!"  she  repeated.    "I  lose  everything!" 

"What  was  it,  Molly?" 

She  leaned  her  lips  to  his  ear. 
205 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"It  was  gold!" 

He  stood,  the  magic  name  of  that  metal  which  shows 
the  color  in  the  shade  electrifying  even  his  ignorance 
of  the  truth. 

"Gold?" 

She  told  him  then,  breaking  her  own  promise  mag 
nificently,  as  a  woman  will. 

"Go,  ride  with  Bridger,"  she  went  on.  "Don't  tell 
him  you  ever  knew  me.  He'll  not  be  apt  to  speak  of 
me.  But  they  found  it,  in  California,  the  middle  of 
last  winter — gold !  Gold !  Carson's  here  in  our  camp 
* — Kit  Carson.  He's  the  first  man  to  bring  it  to  the 
valley  of  the  Platte.  He  was  sworn  to  keep  it  secret; 
so  was  Bridger,  and  so  am  I.  Not  to  Oregon,  Will — 
California!  You  can  live  down  your  past.  If  we  die, 
God  bless  the  man  I  do  love.  That's  you,  Will !  And 
I'm  going  to  marry — him.  Ten  days!  On  the  trail! 
And  he'll  kill  you,  Will!  Oh,  keep  away!" 

She  paused,  breathless  from  her  torrent  of  inco 
herent  words,  jealous  of  the  passing  moments.  It  was 
vague,  it  was  desperate,  it  was  crude.  But  they  were  in 
a  world  vague,  desperate  and  crude. 

"I've  promised  my  men  I'd  not  leave  them,"  he  said 
at  last.  "A  promise  is  a  promise." 

"Then  God  help  us  both !  But  one  thing — when  I'm 
married,  that's  the  end  between  us.  So  good-by." 

He  leaned  his  head  back  on  his  saddle  for  a  time, 
his  tired  horse  turning  back  its  head.  He  put  out  his 

206 


TWO  WHO  LOVED 

hand  blindly;  but  it  was  the  muzzle  of  his  horse  that 
had  touched  his  shoulder.    The  girl  was  gone. 

The  Indian  drums  at  Laramie  thudded  through  the 
dark.  The  great  wolf  in  the  breaks  lifted  his  hoarse, 
raucous  roar  once  more.  The  wilderness  was  afoot 
or  bedding  down,  according  to  its  like. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

WHEN  A  MAID  MARRIES 

CARSON,  Bridger  and  Jackson,  now  reunited 
after  years,  must  pour  additional  libations 
to  Auld  Lang  Syne  at  Laramie,  so  soon  were 
off  together.  The  movers  sat  around  their  thrifty  cook 
ing  fires  outside  the  wagon  corral.  Wingate  and  his 
wife  were  talking  heatedly,  she  in  her  nervousness  not 
knowing  that  she  fumbled  over  and  over  in  her  fingers 
the  heavy  bit  of  rock  which  Molly  had  picked  up  and 
which  was  in  her  handkerchief  when  it  was  requi 
sitioned  by  her  mother  to  bathe  her  face  just  now. 
After  a  time  she  tossed  the  nugget  aside  into  the  grass. 
It  was  trodden  by  a  hundred  feet  ere  long. 

But  gold  will  not  die.  In  three  weeks  a  prowling 
Gros  Ventre  squaw  found  it  and  carried  it  to  the 
trader*,  Bordeaux,  asking,  "Shoog?" 

"Non,  non!"  replied  the  Laramie  trader.  "Pas  de 
shoog!"  But  he  looked  curiously  at  the  thing,  so 
heavy. 

"How,  cola!"  wheedled  the  squaw.  "Shoog!"  She 
made  the  sign  for  sugar,  her  finger  from  her  palm  to 
her  lips.  Bordeaux  tossed  the  thing  into  the  tin  can 

208 


WHEN  A  MAID  MARRIES 

on  the  shelf  and  gave  her  what  sugar  would  cover  a 
spoon. 

''Where?"  He  asked  her,  his  fingers  loosely  shaken, 
meaning,  "Where  did  you  get  it?" 

The  Gros  Ventre  lied  to  him  like  a  lady,  and  told 
him,  on  the  South  Fork,  on  the  Creek  of  Bitter  Cher 
ries — near  where  Denver  now  is;  and  where  placers 
once  were.  That  was  hundreds  of  miles  away.  The 
Gros  Ventre  woman  had  been  there  once  in  her  wan 
derings  and  had  seen  some  heavy  metal. 

Years  later,  after  Fort  Laramie  was  taken  over  by 
the  Government,  Bordeaux  as  sutler  sold  much  flour 
and  bacon  to  men  hurrying  down  the  South  Fork  to 
the  early  Colorado  diggings.  Meantime  in  his  cups 
he  often  had  told  the  mythical  tale  of  the  Gros  Ventre 
woman — long  after  California,  Idaho,  Nevada,  Mon 
tana  were  all  afire.  But  one  of  his  half  breed  children 
very  presently  had  commandeered  the  tin  cup  and  its 
contents,  so  that  to  this  day  no  man  knows  whether 
the  child  swallowed  the  nugget  or  threw  it  into  the 
Laramie  River  or  the  Platte  River  or  the  sagebrush. 
Some  depose  that  an  emigrant  bought  it  of  the  baby; 
but  no  one  knows. 

What  all  men  do  know  is  that  gold  does  not  die; 
nay,  nor  the  news  of  it.  And  this  news  now,  like  a 
multiplying  germ,  was  in  the  wagon  train  that  had 
started  out  for  Oregon. 

As  for  Molly,  she  asked  no  questions  at  all  about 
the  lost  nugget,  but  hurried  to  her  own  bed,  supper- 

209 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

less,  pale  and  weeping.  She  told  her  father  nothing 
of  the  nature  of  her  meeting  with  Will  Banion,  then 
nor  at  any  time  for  many  weeks. 

"Molly,  come  here,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Wingate  beckoned  to  his  daughter  the  second  morn 
ing  after  Banion's  visit. 

The  order  for  the  advance  was  given.  The  men 
had  brought  in  the  cattle  and  the  yoking  up  was  well 
forward.  The  rattle  of  pots  and  pans  was  dying  down. 
Dogs  had  taken  their  places  on  flank  or  at  the  wagon 
rear,  women  were  climbing  up  to  the  seats,  children 
dinging  to  pieces  of  dried  meat.  The  train  was  wait 
ing  for  the  word. 

The  girl  followed  him  calmly,  high-headed. 

"Molly,  see  here,"  he  began.  "We're  all  ready  to 
move  on.  I  don't  know  where  Will  Banion  went,  but 
I  want  you  to  know,  as  I  told  him,  that  he  can't  travel 
in  our  train." 

"He'll  not  ask  to,  father.  He's  promised  to  stick 
to  his  own  men." 

"He's  left  you  at  last !  That's  good.  Now  I  want 
you  to  drop  him  from  your  thoughts.  Hear  that,  and 
heed  it.  I  tell  you  once  more,  you're  not  treating 
Sam  Woodhull  right." 

She  made  him  no  answer. 

"You're  still  young,  Molly,"  he  went  on.  "Once 
you're  settled  you'll  find  Oregon  all  right.  Time  you 
were  marrying.  You'll  be  twenty  and  an  old  maid 

210 


WHEN  A  MAID  MARRIES 

first  thing  you  know.     Sam  will  make  you  a  good 
husband.     Heed  what  I  say." 

But  she  did  not  heed,  though  she  made  no  reply  to 
him.  Her  eye,  "scornful,  threatening  and  young," 
looked  yonder  where  she  knew  her  lover  was;  nor 
was  it  in  her  soul  ever  to  return  from  following  after 
him.  The  name  of  her  intended  husband  left  her  cold 
as  ice. 

"Roll  out!  Roll  out!  Ro-o-o-11  ou-t!" 

The  call  went  down  the  line  once  more.  The  pistolry 
of  the  wagon  whips  made  answer,  the  drone  of  the 
drivers  rose  as  the  sore-necked  oxen  bowed  their  heads 
again,  with  less  strength  even  for  the  lightened  loads. 

The  old  man  who  sat  by  the  gate  at  Fort  Laramie, 
twisting  a  curl  around  his  finger,  saw  the  plain  clear 
ing  now,  as  the  great  train  swung  out  and  up  the  river 
trail.  He  perhaps  knew  that  Jim  Bridger,  with  his 
own  freight  wagons,  going  light  and  fast  with  mules, 
was  on  west,  ahead  of  the  main  caravan.  But  he  did 
not  know  the  news  Jim  Bridger  carried,  the  same  news 
that  Carson  was  carrying  east.  The  three  old  moun 
tain  men,  for  a  few  hours  meeting  after  years,  now 
were  passing  far  apart,  never  to  meet  again.  Their 
chance  encountering  meant  much  to  hundreds  of  men 
and  women  then  on  the  road  to  Oregon;  to  untold 
thousands  yet  to  come. 

As  for  one  Samuel  Woodhull,  late  column  captain, 
it  was  to  be  admitted  that  for  some  time  he  had  been 
conscious  of  certain  bufferings  of  fate.  But  as  all 

211 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

thoroughbred  animals  are  thin-skinned,  so  are  all  the 
short-bred  pachydermatous,  whereby  they  endure  and 
mayhap  arrive  at  the  manger  well  as  the  next.  True, 
even  Woodhull's  vanity  and  self -content  had  every 
thing  asked  of  them  in  view  of  his  late  series  of  mis 
haps;  but  by  now  he  had  somewhat  chirked  up  under 
rest  and  good  food,  and  was  once  more  the  dandy  and 
hail  fellow.  He  felt  assured  that  very  presently  by 
gones  would  be  bygones.  Moreover — so  he  reasoned 
— if  he,  Sam  Woodhull,  won  the  spoils,  what  matter 
who  had  won  any  sort  of  victory?  He  knew,  as  all 
these  others  knew  and  as  all  the  world  knows,  that  a 
beautiful  woman  is  above  all  things  spolia  opima  of 
war.  Well,  in  ten  days  he  was  to  marry  Molly  Win- 
gate,  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  the  train  and  the 
belle  of  more  than  one  community.  Could  he  not 
afford  to  laugh  best,  in  spite  of  all  events,  even  if  some 
of  them  had  not  been  to  his  own  liking? 

But  the  girl's  open  indifference  was  least  of  all  to 
his  liking.  It  enraged  his  vain,  choleric  nature  to  its 
inner  core.  Already  he  planned  dominance ;  but  willing 
to  wait  and  to  endure  for  ten  days,  meantime  he 
employed  innocence,  reticence,  dignity,  attentiveness, 
so  that  he  seemed  a  suitor  misunderstood,  misrepre 
sented,  unjustly  used — to  whose  patient  soul  none  the 
less  presently  must  arrive  justice  and  exoneration, 
after  which  all  would  be  happier  even  than  a  marriage 
bell.  After  the  wedding  bells  he,  Samuel  Woodhull, 
would  show  who  was  master. 

212 


WHEN  A  MAID  MARRIES 

Possessed  once  more  of  horse,  arms  and  personal 
equipment,  and  having  told  his  own  story  of  persecu 
tion  to  good  effect  throughout  the  train,  Woodhull 
had  been  allowed  to  resume  a  nominal  command  over 
a  part  of  the  Wingate  wagons.  The  real  control  lay 
in  the  triumvirate  who  once  had  usurped  power,  and 
who  might  do  so  again. 

Wingate  himself  really  had  not  much  more  than 
nominal  control  of  the  general  company,  although  he 
continued  to  give  what  Caleb  Price  called  the  easy 
orders.  His  wagons,  now  largely  changed  to  ox  trans 
port,  still  traveled  at  the  head  of  the  train,  Molly  con 
tinuing  to  drive  her  own  light  wagon  and  Jed  remain 
ing  on  the  cow  column. 

The  advance  hardly  had  left  Fort  Laramie  hidden 
by  the  rolling  ridges  before  Woodhull  rode  up  to 
Molly's  wagon  and  made  excuse  to  pass  his  horse  to 
a  boy  while  he  himself  climbed  up  on  the  seat  with 
his  fiancee. 

She  made  room  for  him  in  silence,  her  eyes  straight 
ahead.  The  wagon  cover  made  good  screen  behind, 
the  herdsmen  were  far  in  the  rear,  and  from  the 
wagons  ahead  none  could  see  them.  Yet  when,  after 
a  moment,  her  affianced  husband  dropped  an  arm  about 
her  waist  the  girl  flung  it  off  impatiently. 

"Don't!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  detest  love-making  in 
public.  We  see  enough  of  it  that  can't  be  hid.  It's 
getting  worse,  more  open,  the  farther  we  get  out." 

"The  train  knows  we  are  to  be  married  at  the  half- 
213 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

way  stop,  Molly.     Then  you'll  change  wagons  and 
will  not  need  to  drive.'* 

"Wait  till  then." 

"I  count  the  hours.     Don't  you,  dearest?" 

She  turned  a  pallid  face  to  him  at  last,  resentful  of 
his  endearments. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  said.  But  he  did  not  know  what 
she  meant,  or  why  she  was  so  pale. 

"I  think  we'll  settle  in  Portland,"  he  went  on.  "The 
travelers'  stories  say  that  place,  at  the  head  of  navi 
gation  on  the  Willamette,  has  as  good  a  chance  as 
Oregon  City,  at  the  Falls.  I'll  practice  law.  The  goods 
I  am  taking  out  will  net  us  a  good  sum,  I'm  hoping. 
Oh,  you'll  see  the  day  when  you'll  not  regret  that  I 
held  you  to  your  promise !  I'm  not  playing  this  Oregon 
game  to  lose  it." 

"Do  you  play  any  game  to  lose  it?" 

"No!  Better  to  have  than  to  explain  have  not — 
that's  one  of  my  mottoes." 

"No  matter  how?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  was  only  wondering." 

"About  what?" 

"About  men — and  the  differences." 

"My  dear,  as  a  school-teacher  you  have  learned  to 
use  a  map,  a  blackboard.  Do  you  look  on  us  men  as 
ponderable,  measurable,  computable?" 

"A  girl  ought  to  if  she's  going  to  marry." 

"Well,  haven't  you?" 

214 


WHEN  A  MAID  MARRIES 

"Have  I  ?" 

She  still  was  staring  straight  ahead,  cold,  making 
no  silent  call  for  a  lover's  arms  or  arts.  Her  silence 
was  so  long  that  at  length  even  his  thick  hide  was 
pierced. 

"Molly!"  he  broke  out.  "Listen  to  me!  Do  you 
want  the  engagement  broken?  Do  you  want  to  be 
rekased?" 

"What  would  they  all  think?" 

"Not  the  question.    Answer  me!" 

"No,  I  don't  want  it  broken.  I  want  it  over  with. 
Isn't  that  fair?" 

"Is  it?" 

"Didn't  you  say  you  wanted  me  on  any  terms?" 

"Surely!" 

"Don't  you  now?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  and  I'm  going  to  have  you,  too !" 

His  eye,  covetous,  turned  to  the  ripe  young  beauty 
of  the  maid  beside  him.  He  was  willing  to  pay  any 
price. 

"Then  it  all  seems  settled." 

"All  but  one  part.  You've  never  really  and  actually 
told  me  you  loved  me." 

A  wry  smile. 

"I'm  planning  to  do  that  after  I  marry  you.  I  sup 
pose  that's  the  tendency  of  a  woman?  Of  course,  it 
can't  be  true  that  only  one  man  will  do  for  a  woman 
to  marry,  or  one  woman  for  a  man?  If  anything  went 
wrong  on  that  basis — why,  marrying  would  stop? 

215 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

That  would  be  foolish,  wouldn't  it  ?  I  suppose  women 
do  adjust?  Don't  you  think  so?" 

His  face  grew  hard  under  this  cool  reasoning. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  are  marrying  me  as 
a  second  choice,  and  so  that  you  can  forget  some  other 
man?" 

"Couldn't  you  leave  a  girl  a  secret  if  she  had  one? 
Couldn't  you  be  happier  if  you  did?  Couldn't  you  take 
your  chance  and  see  if  there's  anything  under  the 
notion  about  more  than  one  man  and  more  than  one 
woman  in  the  world?  Love?  Why,  what  is  love? 
Something  to  marry  on?  They  say  it  passes.  They 
tell  me  that  marriage  is  more  adjustable,  means  more 
interests  than  love;  that  the  woman  who  marries  with 
her  eyes  open  is  apt  to  be  the  happiest  in  the  long  run. 
Well,  then  you  said  you  wanted  me  on  any  terms. 
Does  not  that  include  open  eyes?" 

"You're  making  a  hard  bargain — the  hardest  a  man 
can  be  obliged  to  take." 

"It  was  not  of  my  seeking." 

"You  said  you  loved  me — at  first." 

"No.  Only  a  girl's  in  love  with  love — at  first.  I've 
not  really  lied  to  you.  I'm  trying  to  be  honest  before 
marriage.  Don't  fear  I'll  not  be  afterward.  There's 
much  in  that,  don't  you  think?  Maybe  there's  some 
thing,  too,  in  a  woman's  ability  to  adjust  and  com 
promise  ?  I  don't  know.  We  ought  to  be  as  happy  as 
the  average  married  couple,  don't  you  think?  None  of 
them  are  happy  for  so  very  long,  they  say.  They  say 

216 


WHEN  A  MAID  MARRIES 

love  doesn't  last  long.  I  hope  not.  One  thing,  I 
believe  marriage  is  easier  to  beat  than  love  is." 

"How  old  are  you,  really,  Molly  ?" 

"I  am  just  over  nineteen,  sir." 

"You  are  wise  for  that;  you  are  old." 

"Yes — since  we  started  for  Oregon." 

He  sat  in  sullen  silence  for  a  long  time,  all  the  venom 
of  his  nature  gathering,  all  his  savage  jealousy. 

"You  mean  since  you  met  that  renegade,  traitor  and 
thief,  Will  Banion!  Tell  me,  isn't  that  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  true.     I'm  older  now.     I  know  more." 

"And  you'll  marry  me  without  love.  You  love  him 
without  marriage?  Is  that  it?" 

"I'll  never  marry  a  thief." 

"But  you  love  one?" 

"I  thought  I  loved  you." 

"But  you  do  love  him,  that  man !" 

Now  at  last  she  turned  to  him,  gazing  straight 
through  the  mist  of  her  tears. 

"Sam,  if  you  really  loved  me,  would  you  ask  that? 
Wouldn't  you  just  try  to  be  so  gentle  and  good  that 
there'd  no  longer  be  any  place  in  my  heart  for  any 
other  sort  of  love,  so  I'd  learn  to  think  that  our  love 
was  the  only  sort  in  the  world?  Wouldn't  you  take 
your  chance  and  make  good  on  it,  believing  that  it  must 
be  in  nature  that  a  woman  can  love  more  than  one 
man,  or  love  men  in  more  than  one  way?  Isn't  mar 
riage  broader  and  with  more  chance  for  both?  If 
you  love  me  and  not  just  yourself  alone,  can't  you 

217 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

take  your  chance  as  I  am  taking  mine?  And  after 
all,  doesn't  a  woman  give  the  odds?  If  you  do  love 
me " 

"If  I  do,  then  my  business  is  to  try  to  make  you 
forget  Will  Banion." 

"There  is  no  other  way  you  could.  He  may  die. 
I  promise  you  I'll  never  see  him  after  I'm  married. 

"And  I'll  promise  you  another  thing" — her  strained 
nerves  now  were  speaking  truth  for  her — "if  by  any 
means  I  ever  learn — if  I  ever  believe — that  Major 
Banion  is  not  what  I  now  think  him,  I'll  go  on  my 
knees  to  him.  I'll  know  marriage  was  wrong  and 
love  was  right  all  the  time." 

"Fine,  my  dear!  Much  happiness!  But  unfortu 
nately  for  Major  Banion's  passing  romance,  the  offi 
cial  records  of  a  military  court-martial  and  a  dishon 
orable  discharge  from  the  Army  are  facts  which  none 
of  us  can  doubt  or  deny." 

"Yes,  that's  how  it  is.     So  that's  why." 

"What  do  you  really  mean  then,  Molly — you  say, 
that's  why?" 

"That's  why  I'm  going  to  marry  you,  Sam.  Nine 
days  from  to-day,  at  the  Independence  Rock,  if  we  are 
alive.  And  from  now  till  then,  and  always,  I'm  going 
to  be  honest,  and  I'm  going  to  pray  God  to  give  you 
power  to  make  me  forget  every  other  man  in  all  the 

world  except  my — my "     But  she  could  not  say 

the  word  "husband." 

"Your  husband!" 

218 


WHEN  A  MAID  MARRIES 

He  said  it  for  her,  and  perhaps  then  reached  his 
zenith  in  approximately  unselfish  devotion,  and  in  good 
resolves  at  least. 

The  sun  shone  blinding  hot.  The  white  dust  rose 
in  clouds.  The  plague  of  flies  increased.  The  rattle 
and  creak  of  wheel,  the  monotone  of  the  drivers,  the 
cough  of  dust-afflicted  kine  made  the  only  sounds  for 
a  long  time. 

"You  can't  kiss  me,  Molly?" 

He  spoke  not  in  dominance  but  in  diffidence.  The 
girl  awed  him. 

"No,  not  till  after,  Sam;  and  I  think  I'd  rather  be 

left  alone  from  now  till  then.  After Oh,  be  good 

to  me,  Sam !  I'm  trying  to  be  honest  as  a  woman  can. 
If  I  were  not  that  I'd  not  be  worth  marrying  at  all." 

Without  suggestion  or  agreement  on  his  part  she 
drew  tighter  the  reins  on  her  mules.  He  sprang  down 
over  the  wheel.  The  sun  and  the  dust  had  their  way 
again;  the  monotony  of  life,  its  drab  discontent,  its 
yearnings  and  its  sense  of  failure  once  more  resumed 
sway  in  part  or  all  of  the  morose  caravan.  They  all 
sought  new  fortunes,  each  of  these.  One  day  each 
must  learn  that,  travel  far  as  he  likes,  a  man  takes  him 
self  with  him  for  better  or  for  worse. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    BROKEN     WEDDING 

BANION  allowed  the  main  caravan  two  days' 
start  before  he  moved  beyond  Fort  Laramie. 
Every  reason  bade  him  to  cut  entirely  apart 
from  that  portion  of  the  company.  He  talked  with 
every  man  he  knew  who  had  any  knowledge  of  the 
country  on  ahead,  read  all  he  could  find,  studied  such 
maps  as  then  existed,  and  kept  an  open  ear  for  advice 
of  old-time  men  who  in  hard  experience  had  learned 
how  to  get  across  a  country. 

Two  things  troubled  him :  The  possibility  of  grass 
exhaustion  near  the  trail  and  the  menace  of  the  Indi 
ans.  Squaw  men  in  from  the  north  and  west  said  that 
the  Arapahoes  were  hunting  on  the  Sweetwater,  and 
sure  to  make  trouble ;  that  the  Black  feet  were  planning 
war;  that  the  Bannacks  were  east  of  the  Pass;  that 
even  the  Crows  were  far  down  below  their  normal 
range  and  certain  to  harass  the  trains.  These  stories, 
not  counting  the  hostility  of  the  Sioux  and  Cheyennes 
of  the  Platte  country,  made  it  appear  that  there  was  a 
tacit  suspense  of  intertribal  hostility,  and  a  general 
and  joint  uprising  against  the  migrating  whites. 

These  facts  Banion  did  not  hesitate  to  make  plain 
to  all  his  men ;  but,  descendants  of  pioneers,  with  blood 
of  the  wilderness  in  their  veins,  and  each  tempted  by 
adventure  as  much  as  by  gain,  they  laughed  long  and 

220 


THE  BROKEN  WEDDING 

loud  at  the  thought  of  danger  from  all  the  Indians  of 
the  Rockies.  Had  they  not  beaten  the  Sioux?  Could 
they  not  in  turn  humble  the  pride  of  any  other  tribe? 
Had  not  their  fathers  worked  with  rifle  lashed  to  the 
plow  beam?  Indians?  Let  them  come! 

Founding  his  own  future  on  this  resolute  spirit  of 
his  men,  Banion  next  looked  to  the  order  of  his  own 
personal  affairs.  He  found  prices  so  high  at  Fort 
Laramie,  and  the  stock  of  all  manner  of  goods  so  low, 
that  he  felt  it  needless  to  carry  his  own  trading  wagons 
all  the  way  to  Oregon,  when  a  profit  of  400  per  cent 
lay  ready  not  a  third  of  the  way  across  and  less  the 
further  risk  and  cost  He  accordingly  cut  down  his 
own  stocks  to  one  wagon,  and  sold  off  wagons  and 
oxen  as  well,  until  he  found  himself  possessed  of  con 
siderably  more  funds  than  when  he  had  started  out. 

He  really  cared  little  for  these  matters.  What  need 
had  he  for  a  fortune  or  a  future  now  ?  He  was  poorer 
than  any  jeans-clad  ox  driver  with  a  sunbonnet  on  the 
seat  beside  him  and  tow-headed  children  on  the  flour 
and  bacon  sacks,  with  small  belongings  beyond  the 
plow  lashed  at  the  tail  gate,  the  ax  leaning  in  the  front 
corner  of  the  box  and  the  rifle  swinging  in  its  loops 
at  the  wagon  bows.  They  were  all  beginning  life 
again.  He  was  done  with  it. 

The  entire  caravan  now  had  passed  in  turn  the  Prai 
ries  and  the  Plains.  In  the  vestibule  of  the  mountains 
they  had  arrived  in  the  most  splendid  out-of-doors 
country  the  world  has  ever  offered.  The  climate  was 

221 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

superb,  the  scenery  was  a  constant  succession  of  chang 
ing  beauties  new  to  the  eyes  of  all.  Game  was  at  hand 
in  such  lavish  abundance  as  none  of  them  had  dreamed 
possible.  The  buffalo  ranged  always  within  touch, 
great  bands  of  elk  now  appeared,  antelope  always  were 
in  sight.  The  streams  abounded  in  noble  game  fish, 
and  the  lesser  life  of  the  open  was  threaded  across 
continually  by  the  presence  of  the  great  predatory  ani 
mals — the  grizzly,  the  gray  wolf,  even  an  occasional 
mountain  lion.  The  guarding  of  the  cattle  herds  now 
required  continual  exertion,  and  if  any  weak  or  crip 
pled  draft  animal  fell  out  its  bones  were  clean  within 
the  hour.  The  feeling  of  the  wilderness  now  was 
distinct  enough  for  the  most  adventurous.  They  fed 
fat,  and  daily  grew  more  like  savages  in  look  and 
practice. 

Wingate's  wagons  kept  well  apace  with  the  average 
schedule  of  a  dozen  miles  a  day,  at  times  spurting  to 
fifteen  or  twenty  miles,  and  made  the  leap  over  the 
heights  of  land  between  the  North  Platte  and  the 
Sweetwater,  which  latter  stream,  often  winding  among 
defiles  as  well  as  pleasant  meadows,  was  to  lead  them 
to  the  summit  of  the  Rockies  at  the  South  Pass,  beyond 
which  they  set  foot  on  the  soil  of  Oregon,  reaching 
thence  to  the  Pacific.  Before  them  now  lay  the  entry 
mark  of  the  Sweetwater  Valley,  that  strange  oblong 
upthrust  of  rock,  rising  high  above  the  surrounding 
plain,  known  for  two  thousand  miles  as  Independence 
Rock. 

222 


THE  BROKEN  WEDDING 

At  this  point,  more  than  eight  hundred  miles  out 
from  the  Missouri,  a  custom  of  unknown  age  seemed 
to  have  decreed  a  pause.  The  great  rock  was  an  unmis- 
takable  landmark,  and  time  out  of  mind  had  been  a 
register  of  the  wilderness.  It  carried  hundreds  of 
names,  including  every  prominent  one  ever  known  in 
the  days  of  fur  trade  or  the  new  day  of  the  wagon 
trains.  It  became  known  as  a  resting  place;  indeed, 
many  rested  there  forever,  and  never  saw  the  soil  of 
Oregon.  Many  an  emigrant  woman,  sick  well-nigh  to 
death,  held  out  so  that  she  might  be  buried  among  the 
many  other  graves  that  clustered  there.  So,  she  felt, 
she  had  the  final  company  of  her  kind.  And  to  those 
weak  or  faint  of  heart  the  news  that  this  was  not  half 
way  across  often  smote  with  despair  and  death,  and 
they,  too,  laid  themselves  down  here  by  the  road  to 
Oregon. 

But  here  also  were  many  scenes  of  cheer.  By  this 
time  the  new  life  of  the  trail  had  been  taken  on,  rude 
and  simple.  Frolics  were  promised  when  the  wagons 
should  reach  the  Rock.  Neighbors  made  reunions 
there.  Weddings,  as  well  as  burials,  were  postponed 
till  the  train  got  to  Independence  Rock. 

Here  then,  a  sad-faced  girl,  true  to  her  promise 
and  true  to  some  strange  philosophy  of  her  own  devis-' 
ing,  was  to  become  the  wife  of  a  suitor  whose  per 
sistency  had  brought  him  little  comfort  beyond  the 
wedding  date.  All  the  train  knew  that  Molly  Wingate 
was  to  be  married  there  to  Sam  Woodhull,  now  re- 

223 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

stored  to  trust  and  authority.  Some  said  it  was  a  good 
match,  others  shook  their  heads,  liking  well  to  see  a 
maid  either  blush  or  smile  in  such  case  as  Molly's, 
whereas  she  did  neither. 

At  all  events,  Mrs.  Wingate  was  two  days  baking 
cakes  at  the  train  stops.  Friends  got  together  little 
presents  for  the  bride.  Jed,  Molly's  brother,  himself  a 
fiddler  of  parts,  organized  an  orchestra  of  a  dozen 
pieces.  The  Rev.  Henry  Doak,  a  Baptist  divine  of 
much  nuptial  diligence  en  route,  made  ready  his  best 
coat.  They  came  into  camp.  In  the  open  spaces  of 
the  valley  hundreds  of  wagons  were  scattered,  each  to 
send  representatives  to  Molly  Wingate' s  wedding. 
Some  insisted  that  the  ceremony  should  be  performed 
on  the  top  of  the  Rock  itself,  so  that  no  touch  of 
romance  should  lack. 

Then  approached  the  very  hour — ten  of  the  night, 
after  duties  of  the  day  were  done.  A  canopy  was 
spread  for  the  ceremony.  A  central  camp  fire  set  the 
place  for  the  wedding  feast.  Within  a  half  hour  the 
bride  would  emerge  from  the  secrecy  of  her  wagon  to 
meet  at  the  canopy  under  the  Rock  the  impatient 
groom,  already  clad  in  his  best,  already  giving  largess 
to  the  riotous  musicians,  who  now  attuned  instruments, 
now  broke  out  into  rude  jests  or  pertinent  song. 

But  Molly  Wingate  did  not  appear,  nor  her  father, 
nor  her  mother.  A  hush  fell  on  the  rude  assemblage. 
The  minister  of  the  gospel  departed  to  the  Wingate 
encampment  to  learn  the  cause  of  the  delay.  He  found 

224 


THE  BROKEN  WEDDING 

Jesse  Wingate  irate  to  open  wrath,  the  girl's  mother 
stony  calm,  the  girl  herself  white  but  resolute. 

"She  insists  on  seeing  the  marriage  license,  Mr. 
Doak,"  began  Jesse  Wingate.  "As  though  we  could 
have  one!  As  though  she  should  care  more  for  that 
than  her  parents !" 

"Quite  so/'  rejoined  the  reverend  man.  "That  is 
something  I  have  taken  up  with  the  happy  groom.  I 
have  with  all  the  couples  I  have  joined  in  wedlock  on 
the  trail.  Of  course,  being  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Woodhull 
knows  that  even  if  they  stood  before  the  meeting  and 
acknowledged  themselves  man  and  wife  it  would  be  a 
lawful  marriage  before  God  and  man.  Of  course, 
also  we  all  know  that  since  we  left  the  Missouri  River 
\ve  have  been  in  unorganized  territory,  with  no  courts 
and  no  form  of  government,  no  society  as  we  under 
stand  it  at  home.  Very  well.  Shall  loving  hearts  be 
kept  asunder  for  those  reasons?  Shall  the  natural 
course  of  life  be  thwarted  until  we  get  to  Oregon? 
Why,  sir,  that  is  absurd !  We  do  not  even  know  much 
of  the  government  of  Oregon  itself,  except  that  it  is 
provisional." 

The  face  of  Molly  Wingate  appeared  at  the  drawn 
curtains  of  her  transient  home.  She  stepped  from  her 
wagon  and  came  forward.  Beautiful,  but  not  radiant, 
she  was ;  cold  and  calm,  but  not  blushing  and  uncertain. 
Her  wedding  gown  was  all  in  white,  true  enough  to 
tradition,  though  but  of  delaine,  pressed  new  from  its 
packing  trunk  by  her  mother's  hands.  Her  bodice, 

225 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

long  and  deep  in  front  and  at  back,  was  plain  entirely, 
save  for  a  treasure  of  lace  from  her  mother's  trunk 
and  her  mother's  wedding  long  ago.  Her  hands  had 
no  gloves,  but  white  short-fingered  mitts,  also  cher 
ished  remnants  of  days  of  schoolgirl  belledom,  did 
service.  Over  white  stockings,  below  the  long  and 
full-bodied  skirt,  showed  the  crossed  bands  of  long 
elastic  tapes  tied  in  an  ankle  bow  to  hold  in  place  her 
little  slippers  of  black  high-finished  leather.  Had  they 
seen  her,  all  had  said  that  Molly  Wingate  was  the 
sweetest  and  the  most  richly  clad  bride  of  any  on  all 
the  long,  long  trail  across  the  land  that  had  no  law. 
And  all  she  lacked  for  her  wedding  costume  was  the 
bride's  bouquet,  which  her  mother  now  held  out  to 
her,  gathered  with  care  that  day  of  the  mountain  flow 
ers — blue  harebells,  forget-me-nots  of  varied  blues  and 
the  blossom  of  the  gentian,  bold  and  blue  in  the  sun 
light,  though  at  night  infolded  and  abashed,  its  petals 
turning  in  and  waiting  for  the  sun  again  to  warm 
them. 

Molly  Wingate,  stout  and  stern,  full  bosomed,  wet 
eyed,  held  out  her  one  little  present  to  her  girl,  her  ewe 
lamb,  whom  she  was  now  surrendering.  But  no  hand 
of  the  bride  was  extended  for  the  bride's  bouquet. 
The  voice  of  the  bride  was  not  low  and  diffident,  but 
high  pitched,  insistent. 

"Provisional?  Provisional?  What  is  it  you  are 
saying,  sir?  Are  you  asking  me  to  be  married  in  a 

226 


THE  BROKEN  WEDDING 

provisional  wedding?    Am  I  to  give  all  I  have  provis 
ionally?    Is  my  oath  provisional,  or  his?" 

"Now,  now,  my  dear!"  began  the  minister. 

Her  father  broke  out  into  a  half -stifled  oath. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

Her  mother's  face  went  pale  under  its  red  bronze. 

"I  mean  this,"  broke  out  the  girl,  still  in  the  strained 
high  tones  that  betokened  her  mental  state :  "I'll  marry 
no  man  in  any  halfway  fashion!  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me?  Why  didn't  I  think?  How  could  I  have  forgot 
ten?  Law,  organization,  society,  convention,  form, 
custom — haven't  I  got  even  those  things  to  back  me? 
No?  Then  I've  nothing !  It  was — it  was  those  things 
— form,  custom — that  I  was  going  to  have  to  support 
me.  I've  got  nothing  else.  Gone — they're  gone,  too! 
And  you  ask  me  to  marry  him — provisionally — pro 
visionally!  Oh,  my  God!  what  awful  thing  was  this? 
I  wasn't  even  to  have  that  solid  thing  to  rest  on,  back 
of  me,  after  it  all  was  over!" 

They  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  time,  trying  to  catch 
and  weigh  her  real  intent,  to  estimate  what  it  might 
mean  as  to  her  actions. 

"Like  images,  you  are!"  she  went  on  hysterically, 
her  physical  craving  for  one  man,  her  physical  loath 
ing  of  another,  driving  her  well-nigh  mad.  "You 
wouldn't  protect  your  own  daughter!" — to  her  stupe 
fied  parents.  "Must  I  think  for  you  at  this  hour  of  my 
life?  How  near — oh,  how  near!  But  not  now — not 
this  way!  No!  No!" 

227 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"What  do  you  mean,  Molly?"  demanded  her  father 
sternly.  "Come  now,  we'll  have  no  woman  tantrums 
at  this  stage !  This  goes  on !  They're  waiting !  He's 
waiting !" 

"Let  him  wait !"  cried  the  girl  in  sudden  resolution. 
All  her  soul  was  in  the  cry,  all  her  outraged,  self- 
punished  heart.  Her  philosophy  fell  from  her  swiftly 
at  the  crucial  moment  when  she  was  to  face  the  kiss, 
the  embrace  of  another  man.  The  great  inarticulate 
voice  of  her  woman  nature  suddenly  sounded,  impera 
tive,  terrifying,  in  her  own  ears — "Oh,  Will  Banion, 
Will  Banion,  why  did  you  take  away  my  heart?"  And 
now  she  had  been  on  the  point  of  doing  this  thing !  An 
act  of  God  had  intervened. 

Jesse  Wingate  nodded  to  the  minister.  They  drew 
apart.  The  holy  man  nodded  assent,  hurried  away — 
the  girl  sensed  on  what  errand. 

"No  use!"  she  said.    "I'll  not!" 

Stronger  and  stronger  in  her  soul  surged  the  yearn 
ing  for  the  dominance  of  one  man,  not  this  man  yonder 
— a  yearning  too  strong  now  for  her  to  resist. 

"But  Molly,  daughter,"  her  mother's  voice  said  to 
her,  "girls  has — girls  does.  And  like  he  said,  it's  the 
promise,  it's  the  agreement  they  both  make,  with  wit 
nesses." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  her  father  chimed  in.  "It's  the 
consent  in  the  contract  when  you  stand  before  them 
all" 

228 


THE  BROKEN  WEDDING 

"111  not  stand  before  them.  I  don't  consent !  There 
is  no  agreement!" 

Suddenly  the  girl  reached  out  and  caught  from  her 
mother  the  pitiful  little  bride's  bouquet. 

"Look!"  she  laughed.     "Look  at  these!" 

One  by  one,  rapidly,  she  tore  out  and  flung  down 
the  folded  gentian  flowers. 

"Closed,  closed !  When  the  night  came,  they  closed ! 
They  couldn't !  They  couldn't !  I'll  not— I  can't !" 

She  had  the  hand's  clasp  of  mountain  blossoms 
stripped  down  to  a  few  small  flowers  of  varied  blooms. 
They  heard  the  coming  of  the  groom,  half  running.  A 
silence  fell  over  all  the  great  encampment.  The  girl's 
father  made  a  half  step  forward,  even  as  her  mother 
sank  down,  cowering,  her  hands  at  her  face. 

Then,  without  a  word,  with  no  plan  or  purpose, 
Molly  Wingate  turned,  sprang  away  from  them  and 
fled  out  into  a  night  that  was  black  indeed. 

Truly  she  had  but  one  thought,  and  that  in  negation 
only.  Yonder  came  to  claim  her  a  man  suddenly  odious 
to  her  senses.  It  could  not  be.  His  kiss,  his  arms — if 
these  were  of  this  present  time  and  place,  then  no  place 
in  all  the  world,  even  the  world  of  savage  blackness 
that  lay  about,  could  be  so  bad  as  this.  At  the  test 
her  philosophy  had  forsaken  her,  reason  now  almost  as 
well,  and  sheer  terrified  flight  remained  her  one 
reaction. 

She  was  gone,  a  white  ghost  in  her  wedding  gown, 
her  little  slippers  stumbling  over  the  stones,  her  breath 

229 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

coming  sobbingly  as  she  ran.  They  followed  her. 
Back  of  them,  at  the  great  fire  whose  illumination  deep-* 
ened  the  shadows  here,  rose  a  murmur,  a  rising  of 
curious  people,  a  pressing  forward  to  the  Wingate 
station.  But  of  these  none  knew  the  truth,  and  it  was 
curiosity  that  now  sought  answer  for  the  delay  in  the 
anticipated  divertisement. 

Molly  Wingate  ran  for  some  moments,  to  some 
distance — she  knew  of  neither.  Then  suddenly  all  her 
ghastly  nightmare  of  terror  found  climax  in  a  world  of 
demons.  Voices  of  the  damned  rose  around  her. 
There  came  a  sudden  shock,  a  blow.  Before  she  could 
understand,  before  she  could  determine  the  shadowy 
form  that  rose  before  her  in  the  dark,  she  fell  forward 
like  the  stricken  creature. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   DANCE   IN    THE   DESERT 

THERE  was  no  wedding  that  night  at  the 
Independence  Rock.    The  Arapahoes  saw  to 
that.    But  there  were  burials  the  day  follow 
ing,  six  of  them — two  women,  a  child,  three  men.    The 
night  attack  had  caught  the  company  wholly  off  guard, 
and  the  bright  fire  gave  good  illumination  for  shaft 
and  ball. 

"Put  out  the  fires !    Corral !    Corral !" 

Voices  of  command  arose.  The  wedding  guests 
rushed  for  the  shelter  of  their  own  wagons.  Men 
caught  up  their  weapons  and  a  steady  fire  at  the  unseen 
foe  held  the  latter  at  bay  after  the  first  attack. 

Indeed,  a  sort  of  panic  seized  the  savages.  A  war 
rior  ran  back  exclaiming  that  he  had  seen  a  spirit,  all 
in  white,  not  running  away  from  the  attack,  but  toward 
them  as  they  lay  in  cover.  He  had  shot  an  arrow  at 
the  spirit,  which  then  had  vanished.  It  would  be 
better  to  fall  back  and  take  no  more  like  chances. 

For  this  reason  the  family  of  Molly  Wingate,  pur 
suing  her  closely  as  they  could,  found  her  at  last,  lying 
face  down  in  the  grass,  her  arms  outspread,  her  white 
wedding  gown  red  with  blood.  An  arrow,  its  shaft 

231 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

cracked  by  her  fall,  was  imbedded  in  her  shoulder, 
driven  deep  by  the  savage  bowman  who  had  fired  in 
fear  at  an  object  he  did  not  recognize.  So  they  found 
her,  still  alive,  still  unmutilated,  still  no  prisoner.  They 
carried  the  girl  back  to  her  mother,  who  reached  out 
her  arms  and  laid  her  child  down  behind  the  barricaded 
wagon  wheels. 

"Bring  me  a  candle,  you !"  she  called  to  the  nearest 
man.  It  chanced  to  be  Sam  Woodhull. 

Soon  a  woman  came  with  a  light. 

"Go  away  now!"  the  mother  commanded  the  dis 
appointed  man. 

He  passed  into  the  dark.  The  old  woman  opened 
the  bodice  over  the  girl's  heart,  stripped  away  the 
stained  lace  that  had  served  in  three  weddings  on  two 
sides  of  the  Appalachians,  and  so  got  to  the  wound. 

"It's  in  to  the  bone,"  she  said.  "It  won't  come  out. 
Get  me  my  scissors  out  of  my  bag.  It's  hanging  right 
'side  the  seat,  our  wagon." 

"Ain't  there  no  doctor?"  she  demanded,  her  own 
heart  weakening  now.  But  none  could  tell.  A  few 
women  grouped  around  her. 

"It  won't  come  out  of  that  little  hole  it  went  in," 
said  stout  Molly  Wingate,  not  quite  sobbing.  "I  got 
to  cut  it  wider." 

Silence  held  them  as  she  finished  the  shreds  of  the 
ashen  shaft  and  pressed  to  one  side  the  stub  of  it.  So 
with  what  tools  she  knew  best  she  cut  into  the  fabric 
of  her  own  weaving,  out  of  her  own  blood  and  bone; 

232 


THE  DANCE  IN  THE  DESERT 

cut  mayhap  in  steady  snippings  at  her  own  heart,  puli 
ng  and  wrenching  until  the  flesh,  now  growing  purple, 
was  raised  above  the  girl's  white  breast.  Both  arms, 
n  their  white  sleeves,  lay  on  the  trodden  grass  motion- 
ess,  and  had  not  shock  and  strain  left  the  victim  uncon 
scious  the  pain  must  now  have  done  so. 

The  sinew  wrappings  held  the  strap-iron  head,  wetted 
as  they  now  were  with  blood.    The  sighing  surgeon 
aught  the  base  of  the  arrowhead  in  thumb  and  finger. 
There  was  no  stanching  of  the  blood.    She  wrenched  it 
ree  at  last,  and  the  blood  gushed  from  a  jagged  hole 
vhich  would  have  meant  death  in  any  other  air  or  in  any 
jatient  but  the  vital  young. 

Now  they  disrobed  the  bride  that  was  no  bride, 
even  as  the  rifle  fire  died  away  in  the  darkness.  Women 
)rought  frontier  drafts  of  herbs  held  sovereign,  and 
aid  her  upon  the  couch  that  was  not  to  have  been  hers 
alone. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  moaning,  held  out  her  arms  to 
icr  mother,  not  to  any  husband;  and  her  mother, 
bloody,  unnerved,  weeping,  caught  her  to  her  bosom. 

"My  lamb!  My  little  lamb!  Oh,  dear  me  I  Oh, 
dear  me!" 

The  wailing  of  others  for  their  dead  arose.  Thfc 
camp  dogs  kept  up  a  continual  barking,  but  there  was 
no  other  sound.  The  guards  now  lay  out  in  the  dark. 
A  figure  came  creeping  toward  the  bridal  tent. 

"Is  she  alive?  May  I  come  in?  Speak  to  me,  Molly!" 
233 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Go  on  away,  Sam !"  answered  the  voice  of  the  older 
woman.  "You  can't  come  in." 

"But  is  she  alive?  Tell  me  1"  His  voice  was  at  the 
door  which  he  could  not  pass. 

"Yes,  more's  the  pity !"  he  heard  the  same  voice  say. 

But  from  the  girl  who  should  then  have  been  his,  to 
have  and  to  hold,  he  heard  no  sound  at  all,  nor  could 
he  know  her  frightened  gaze  into  her  mother's  face, 
her  tight  clutch  on  her  mother's  hand. 

This  was  no  place  for  delay.  They  made  graves  for 
the  dead,  pallets  for  the  wounded.  At  sunrise  the  train 
moved  on,  grim,  grave,  dignified  and  silent  in  its  very 
suffering.  There  was  no  time  for  reprisal  or  revenge. 
The  one  idea  as  to  safety  was  to  move  forward  in  hope 
of  shaking  off  pursuit 

But  all  that  morning  and  all  that  day  the  mounted 
Arapahoes  harassed  them.  At  many  bends  of  the 
Sweetwater  they  paused  and  made  sorties ;  but  the  sav 
ages  fell  back,  later  to  close  in,  sometimes  under  cover 
so  near  that  their  tauntings  could  be  heard. 

Wingate,  Woodhull,  Price,  Hall,  Kelsey  stationed 
themselves  along  the  line  of  flankers,  and  as  the  country 
became  flatter  and  more  open  they  had  better  control 
of  the  pursuers,  so  that  by  nightfall  the  latter  began 
to  fall  back. 

The  end  of  the  second  day  of  forced  marching  found 
them  at  the  Three  Crossings  of  the  Sweetwater,  deep 
in  a  cheerless  alkaline  desert,  and  on  one  of  the  most 
depressing  reaches  of  the  entire  journey.  That  night 

234 


THE  DANCE  IN  THE  DESERT 

such  gloom  fell  on  their  council  as  had  not  yet  been 
known. 

"The  Watkins  boy  died  to-day,"  said  Hall,  joining 
his  colleagues  at  the  guarded  fire.  "His  leg  was  black 
where  it  was  broke.  They're  going  to  bury  him  just 
ahead,  in  the  trail.  It's  not  best  to  leave  headboards 
here." 

Wingate  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  apathy.  For  a  time 
JVoodhull  did  not  speak  to  him  after  he  also  came  in. 

"How  is  she,  Mr.  Wingate?"  he  asked  at  last.  "She'll 
live?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other.  "Fever.  No  one 
can  tell.  We  found  a  doctor  in  one  of  the  Iowa  wagons. 
He  don't  know." 

Woodhull  sat  silent  for  a  time,  exclaimed  at  last, 
"But  she  will — she  must!  This  shames  me!  We'll  be 
married  yet." 

"Better  wait  to  see  if  she  lives  or  dies,"  said  Jesse 
Wingate  succinctly. 

"I  know  what  I  wish,"  said  Caleb  Price  at  last  as 
he  stared  moodily  at  the  coals,  "and  I  know  it  mighty 
>vell — I  wish  the  other  wagons  were  up.  Yes,  and  — " 

He  did  not  finish.  A  nod  or  so  was  all  the  answer  he 
got.  A  general  apprehension  held  them  all. 

"If  Bridger  hadn't  gone  on  ahead,  damn  him!"  ex 
claimed  Kelsey  at  last. 

"Or  if  Carson  hadn't  refused  to  come  along,  instead 
of  going  on  east,"  assented  Hall.  "What  made  him  so 
keen?" 

235 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Kelsey  spoke  morosely. 

"Said  he  had  papers  to  get  through.  Maybe  Kit 
Carson'll  sometime  carry  news  of  our  being  wiped 
out  somewhere." 

"Or  if  we  had  Bill  Jackson  to  trail  for  us,"  ven 
tured  the  first  speaker  again.  "If  we  could  send  back 
word " 

"We  can't,  so  what's  the  use?"  interrupted  Price. 
"We  were  all  together,  and  had  our  chance — once." 

But  buried  as  they  were  in  their  gloomy  doubts,  re 
grets,  fears,  they  got  through  that  night  and  the  next 
in  safety.  They  dared  not  hunt,  though  the  buffalo  and 
antelope  were  in  swarms,  and  though  they  knew  they 
now  were  near  the  western  limit  of  the  buffalo  range. 
They  urged  on,  mile  after  mile.  The  sick  and  the 
wounded  must  endure  as  they  might. 

Finally  they  topped  the  gentle  incline  which  marked 
the  heights  of  land  between  the  Sweetwater  and  the 
tributaries  of  the  Green,  and  knew  they  had  reached 
the  South  Pass,  called  halfway  to  Oregon.  There  was 
no  timber  here.  The  pass  itself  was  no  winding  canon, 
but  only  a  flat,  broad  valley.  Bolder:  views  they  had 
seen,  but  none  of  greater  interest. 

Now  they  would  set  foot  on  Oregon,  passing  from 
one  great  series  of  waterways  to  another  and  even 
vaster,  leading  down  to  the  western  sea — the  unknown 
South  Sea  marked  as  the  limits  of  their  possessions  by 
the  gallants  of  King  Charles  when,  generations  earlier, 
and  careless  of  all  these  intervening  generations  of  toil 

236 


THE  DANCE  IN  THE  DESERT 

and  danger,  they  had  paused  at  the  summit  of  Rockfish 
Gap  in  the  Appalachians  and  waved  a  gay  hand  each 
toward  the  unknown  continent  that  lay  they  knew  not 
how  far  to  the  westward. 

But  these,  now  arrived  halfway  of  half  that  conti 
nent,  made  no  merriment  in  their  turn.  Their  wounded 
and  their  sick  were  with  them.  The  blazing  sun  tried 
them  sore.  Before  them  also  lay  they  knew  not  what. 

And  now,  coming  in  from  the  northeast  in  a  vast 
braided  tracing  of  travois  poles  and  trampling  hoofs, 
lay  a  trail  which  fear  told  them  was  that  of  yet  another 
war  party  waiting  for  the  white-topped  wagons.  It 
led  on  across  the  Pass.  It  could  not  be  more  than  two 
days  old 

"It's  the  Crows  f"  exclaimed  Sam  Woodhull,  study 
ing  the  broad  trail.  "They've  got  their  women  and 
children  with  them/' 

"We  have  ours  with  us,"  said  Caleb  Price  simply. 

Every  man  who  heard  him  looked  back  at  the  lines 
of  gaunt  cattle,  at  the  dust-stained  canvas  coverings 
that  housed  their  families.  They  were  far  afield  from 
home  or  safety. 

"Call  Wingate.  Let's  decide  what  to  do,"  exclaimed 
Price  again.  "We'll  have  to  vote." 

They  voted  to  go  on,  fault  of  any  better  plan.  Some 
said  Bridger's  post  was  not  far  ahead.  A  general  impa 
tience,  fretful,  querulous,  manifested  itself.  Ignorant, 
many  of  these  wanted  to  hurry  on  to  Oregon,  which 
for  most  meant  the  Williamette  Valley,  in  touch  with 

237 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

the  sea,  marked  as  the  usual  end  of  the  great  trek.  Few 
knew  that  they  now  stood  on  the  soil  of  the  Oregon 
country.  The  maps  and  journals  of  Molly  Wingate 
were  no  more  forthcoming,  for  Molly  Wingate  no  more 
taught  the  evening  school,  but  lay  delirious  under  the 
hothouse  canvas  cover  that  intensified  the  rays  of  the 
blazing  sun.  It  was  life  or  death,  but  by  now  life-and- 
death  issue  had  become  no  unusual  experience. 

It  was  August,  midsummer,  and  only  half  the  jour 
ney  done.  The  heat  was  blinding,  blistering.  For  days 
now,  in  the  dry  sage  country,  from  the  ford  of  the 
North  Fork  of  the  Platte,  along  the  Sweetwater  and 
down  the  Sandy,  the  white  alkali  dust  had  sifted  in 
and  over  everything.  Lips  cracked  open,  hands  and 
arms  either  were  raw  or  black  with  tan.  The  wagons 
were  ready  to  drop  apart.  A  dull  silence  had  fallen  on 
the  people;  but  fatuously  following  the  great  Indian 
trail  they  made  camp  at  last  at  the  ford  of  the  Green 
River,  the  third  day's  march  down  the  Pacific  Slope. 
No  three  days  of  all  the  slow  trail  had  been  harder  to 
endure  than  these. 

"Play  for  them,  Jed,"  counseled  Caleb  Price,  when 
that  hardy  youth,  leaving  his  shrunken  herd,  came  in 
for  his  lunch  that  day  at  the  ford. 

"Yes,  but  keep  that  fiddle  in  the  shade,  Jed,  or  the 
sun  certainly  will  pop  it  open." 

Jed's  mother,  her  apron  full  of  broken  bits  of  sage 
brush,  turned  to  see  that  her  admonishment  was  heeded 
before  she  began  her  midday  coffee  fire.  As  for  Jed 

238 


THE  DANCE  IN  THE  DESERT 

himself,  with  a  wide  grin  he  crouched  down  at  the  side 
of  the  wagon  and  leaned  against  a  wheel  as  he  struck 
up  a  lively  air,  roaring  joyously  to  his  accompaniment : 

Git  out  o'  the  way,  old  Dan  Tucker, 
You9 re  too  late  to  git  yore  supper! 

Unmindful  of  the  sullen  apathy  of  men  and  women, 
the  wailing  of  children  stifling  under  the  wagon  tops, 
the  moans  of  the  sick  and  wounded  in  their  ghastly  dis 
comfort,  Jed  sang  with  his  cracked  lips  as  he  swung 
from  one  jig  to  the  next,  the  voice  of  the  violin  reaching 
all  the  wagons  of  the  shortened  train. 

"Choose  yore  pardners !"  rang  his  voice  in  the  joyous 
jesting  of  youth.  And — marvel  and  miracle — then  and 
there,  those  lean  brown  folk  did  take  up  the  jest,  and 
laughingly  gathered  on  the  sun-seared  sands.  They 
formed  sets  and  danced — danced  a  dance  of  the  indom 
itable,  at  high  noon,  the  heat  blinding,  the  sand  hot 
under  feet  not  all  of  which  were  shod.  Molly  Wingate, 
herself  fifty  and  full-bodied,  cast  down  her  firewood, 
caught  up  her  skirt  with  either  hand  and  made  good  an 
old-time  jig  to  the  tune  of  the  violin  and  the  roaring 
accompaniment  of  many  voices  and  of  patted  hands. 
She  paused  at  length,  dropping  her  calico  from  between 
her  fingers,  and  hastened  to  a  certain  wagon  side  as  she 
wiped  her  face  with  her  apron. 

"Didn't  you  hear  it,  Molly?"  she  demanded,  parting 
the  curtain  and  looking  in. 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  wanted — I  almost  wanted  to  join. 
239 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Mother,  I  almost  wanted  to  hope  again.    Am  I  to  live  ? 
Where  are  we  now  ?" 

"By  a  right  pretty  river,  child,  and  eena'most  to 
Oregon,  Come,  kiss  your  mother,  Molly.  Let's  try." 

Whereupon,  having  issued  her  orders  and  set  every 
one  to  work  at  something  after  her  practical  fashion, 
the  first  lady  of  the  train  went  frizzling  her  shaved 
buffalo  meat  with  milk  in  the  frying  pan;  grumbling 
that  milk  now  was  almost  at  the  vanishing  point,  and 
that  now  they  wouldn't  see  another  buffalo ;  but  always 
getting  forward  with  her  meal.  This  she  at  last  amiably 
announced. 

"Well,  come  an'  git  it,  people,  or  I'll  throw  it  to  the 
dogs." 

Flat  on  the  sand,  on  blankets  or  odds  and  ends  of 
hide,  the  emigrants  sat  and  ate,  with  the  thermometer 
— had  they  had  one — perhaps  a  hundred  and  ten  in  the 
sun.  The  men  were  silent  for  the  most  part,  with  now 
and  then  a  word  about  the  ford,  which  they  thought 
it  would  be  wise  to  make  a't  once,  before  the  river  per 
chance  might  rise,  and  while  it  still  would  not  swim 
the  cattle. 

"We  can't  wait  for  anyone,  not  even  the  Crows," 
said  Wingate,  rising  and  ending  the  mealtime  talk. 
"Let's  get  across." 

Methodically  they  began  the  blocking  up  of  the 
wagon  bodies  to  the  measurement  established  by  a  wet 
pole, 

240 


THE  DANCE  IN  THE  DESERT 

'Thank  the  Lord,"  said  Wingate,  "they'll  just  clear 
now  if  the  bottom  is  hard  all  the  way." 

One  by  one  the  teams  were  urged  into  the  ticklish 
crossing.  The  line  of  wagons  was  almost  all  at  the 
farther  side  when  all  at  once  the  rear  guard  came  back, 
spurring. 

"Corral!  Corral  I"  he  called. 

He  plunged  into  the  stream  as  the  last  driver  urged 
his  wagon  up  the  bank.  A  rapid  dust  cloud  was  ap 
proaching  down  the  valley. 

"Indians!"  called  out  a  dozen  voices.  "Corral,  men! 
For  God's  sake,  quick — corral !" 

They  had  not  much  time  or  means  to  make  defense, 
but  with  training  now  become  second  nature  they  circled 
and  threw  the  dusty  caravan  into  the  wonted  barricade, 
tongue  to  tail  gate.  The  oxen  could  not  all  be  driven 
within,  the  loose  stock  was  scattered,  the  horses  were 
not  on  picket  lines  at  that  thrfe  of  day;  but  driving 
what  stock  they  could,  the  boy  herders  came  in  at  a  run 
when  the)-  saw  the  wagons  parking. 

There  was  no  time  to  spare.  The  dust  cloud  swept 
on  rapidly.  It  could  not  spell  peace,  for  no  men  would 
urge  their  horses  at  such  pace  under  such  a  sun  save 
for  one  purpose — to  overtake  this  party  at  the  ford. 

"It's  Bill  Jackson!"  exclaimed  Caleb  Price,  rifle  in 
hand,  at  the  river's  edge.  "Look  out,  men!  Don't 
shoot!  Wait!  There's  fifty  Indians  back  of  him,  but 
that's  Jackson  ahead.  Now  what's  wrong?" 

The  riddle  was  not  solved  even  when  the  scout  of 
241 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

the  Missouri  train,  crowded  ahead  by  the  steady  rush 
of  the  shouting  and  laughing  savages,  raised  his  voice 
as  though  in  warning  and  shouted  some  word,  unintek 
ligible,  which  made  them  hold  their  fire. 

The  wild  cavalcade  dashed  into  the  stream,  crowding 
their  prisoner — he  was  no  less — before  them,  bent  bows 
back  of  him,  guns  ready. 

They  were  stalwart,  naked  men,  wide  of  jaw,  great 
of  chest,  not  a  woman  or  child  among  them,  all  painted 
and  full  armed. 

"My  God,  men!"  called  Wingate,  hastening  under 
cover.  "Don't  let  them  in!  Don't  let  them  in!  It's 
the  Crows !" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
HOW,  COLA! 

"y  irOW,  cola!"  exclaimed  the  leader  of  the  band 

I 1  of  Indians,  crowding  up  to  the  gap  in  the 

-•-  -*-  corral  where  a  part  of  the  stock  had  just 
been  driven  in.  He  grinned  maliciously  and  made  the 
sign  for  "Sioux" — the  edge  of  the  hand  across  the 
throat. 

But  men,  rifles  crosswise,  barred  him  back,  while 
others  were  hurrying,  strengthening  the  barricade.  A 
half  dozen  rifles,  thrust  out  through  wheels  or  leveled 
across  wagon  togues,  now  covered  the  front  rank  of 
the  Crows ;  but  the  savages,  some  forty  or  fifty  in  num 
ber,  only  sat  their  horses  laughing.  This  was  sport  to 
them.  They  had  no  doubt  at  all  that  they  would  have 
their  will  of  this  party  of  the  whites  as  soon  as  they 
got  ready,  and  they  planned  further  strategy.  To  drive 
a  prisoner  into  camp  before  killing  him  was  humorous 
from  their  point  of  view,  and  practical  withal,  like  driv 
ing  a  buffalo  close  to  the  village  before  shooting  it. 

But  the  white  men  were  not  deceived  by  the  trading- 
post  salutation. 

"He's  a  liar!"  called  out  the  voice  of  Jackson. 
"They're  not  Sioux — they're  Crows,  an'  out  for  war! 

*43 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Don't  let  'em  in,  boys !  For  God's  sake,  keep  'em  out !" 
It  was  a  brave  man's  deed.  The  wonder  was  his 
words  were  not  his  last,  for  though  the  Crows  did  not 
understand  all  his  speech,  they  knew  well  enough  what 
he  meant.  One  brave  near  him  struck  him  across  the 
mouth  with  the  heavy  wooden  stock  of  his  Indian  whip, 
so  that  his  lips  gushed  blood.  A  half  dozen  arrows 
turned  toward  him,  trembling  on  the  strings.  But  the 
voice  of  their  partisan  rose  in  command.  He  preferred 
a  parley,  hoping  a  chance  might  offer  to  get  inside  the 
wagon  ring.  The  loose  stock  he  counted  safe  booty 
any  time  they  liked.  He  did  not  relish  the  look  of  the 
rifle  muzzles  at  a  range  of  twenty  feet.  The  riders  were 
now  piled  in  almost  against  the  wheels. 

"Swap!"  exclaimed  the  Crow  leader  ingratiatingly, 
and  held  out  his  hand.  "How,  cola !" 

"Don't  believe  him!  Don't  trust  him,  men!" 
Again  Jackson's  voice  rose.  As  the  savages  drew 
apart  from  him,  to  hold  him  in  even  better  bow  range, 
one  young  brave,  hideously  barred  in  vermilion  and 
yellow,  all  the  time  with  an  arrow  at  the  prisoner's 
back,  the  men  in  the  wagon  corral  now  saw  that  Jack 
son's  hands  were  tied  behind  his  back,  so  that  he  was 
helpless.  But  still  he  sat  his  own  horse,  and  still  he 
had  a  chance  left  to  take. 

"Look  out!"  he  called  high  and  clear.    "Get  away 
from  the  hole!     I'm  comin'  in!" 

Before  anyone  fully  caught  his  meaning  he  swung 
his  horse  with  his  legs,  lifted  him  with  his  heels  and 

244 


- 

HOW,  COLA! 

made  one  straight,  desperate  plunge  for  the  gap,  jos 
tling  aside  the  nearest  two  or  three  of  his  oppressors. 

It  was  a  desperate  man's  one  hope — no  hope  at  all, 
indeed,  for  the  odds  were  fifty  to  one  against  him. 
Swift  as  was  his  movement,  and  unprepared  as  his 
tormentors  were  for  it,  just  as  the  horse  rose  to  his 
leap  over  the  wagon  tongue,  and  as  the  rider  flung 
himself  low  on  his  neck  to  escape  what  he  knew  would 
come,  a  bow  twanged  back  of  him.  They  all  heard  the 
zhut !  of  the  arrow  as  it  struck.  Then,  in  a  stumbling 
heap,  horse  and  rider  fell,  rolled  over,  as  a  sleet  of  ar 
rows  followed  through. 

Jackson  rolled  to  one  side,  rose  to  his  knees.  Molly 
Wingate  chanced  to  be  near.  Her  scissors,  carefully 
guarded  always,  because  priceless,  hung  at  her  neck. 
Swiftly  she  began  to  saw  at  the  thong  which  held  Jack 
son's  wrists,  bedded  almost  to  the  bone  and  twisted  with 
a  stick.  She  severed  the  cord  somehow  and  the  man 
staggered  up.  Then  they  saw  the  arrow  standing  out 
at  both  sides  of  his  shoulder,  driven  through  the  muscles 
with  the  hasty  snap  of  the  painted  bowman's  shot. 

"Cut  it — break  it!"  he  demanded  of  her;  for  all  the 
men  now  were  at  the  edge,  and  there  was  no  one  else 
to  aid.  And  staunch  Molly  Wingate,  her  eyes  staring 
again  in  htfrror,  took  the  bloody  stem  and  tried  to  break 
it  off,  in  her  second  case  of  like  surgery  that  week.  But 
the  shaft  was  flexible,  tough  and  would  not  break. 

"A  knife — quick!   Cut  it  off  above  the  feather!" 

He  himself  caught  the  front  of  the  shaft  and  pushed 
245 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

it  back,  close  to  the  head.  By  chance  she  saw  Jed's 
knife  at  his  belt  as  he  kneeled,  and  drew  it.  Clumsily 
but  steadily  she  slashed  into  the  shaft,  weakened  it, 
broke  it,  pushed  the  point  forward.  Jackson  himself 
unhesitatingly  pulled  it  through,  a  gush  of  blood  fol 
lowing  on  either  side  the  shoulder.  There  was  no  time 
to  notice  that.  Crippled  as  he  was,  the  man  only  looked 
for  weapons.  A  pistol  lay  on  the  ground  and  he  caught 
it  up. 

But  for  the  packs  and  bales  that  had  been  thrown 
against  the  wheels,  the  inmates  of  the  corral  would  all 
have  fallen  under  the  rain  of  arrows  that  now  slatted 
and  thudded  in.  But  they  kept  low,  and  the  Indians 
were  so  close  against  the  wagons  that  they  could  not 
see  under  the  bodies  or  through  the  wheels.  The 
chocks  had  not  yet  been  taken  out  from  under  the 
boxes,  so  that  they  stood  high.  Against  such  a  barri 
cade  cavalry  was  helpless.  There  was  no  warrior  who 
wanted  to  follow  Jackson's  example  of  getting  inside. 

For  an  instant  there  came  no  order  to  fire.  The  men 
were  reaching  into  the  wagons  to  unsling  their  rifles 
from  the  riding  loops  fastened  to  the  bows.  It  all  was 
a  trample  and  a  tumult  and  a  whirl  of  dust  under 
thudding  hoofs  outside  and  in,  a  phase  which  could  last 
no  more  than  an  instant.  Came  the  thin  crack  of  a 
squirrel  rifle  from  the  far  corner  of  the  wagon  park. 
The  Crow  partisan  sat  his  horse  just  a  moment,  the  ex 
pression  on  his  face  frozen  there,  his  mouth  slowly 

246 


HOW,  COLA! 

closing.    Then  he  slid  off  his  horse  close  to  the  gap,  now 
piled  high  with  goods  and  gear. 

A  boy's  high  quaver  rose. 

"You  can't  say  nothing  this  time !  You  didn't  shoot 
at  all  now!" 

An  emigrant  boy  was  jeering  at  his  father. 

But  by  that  time  no  one  knew  or  cared  who  shot. 
The  fight  was  on.  Every  rifle  was  emptied  in  the  next 
instant,  and  at  that  range  almost  every  shot  was  fatal 
or  disabling.  In  sudden  panic  at  the  powder  flare  in 
their  faces,  the  Crows  broke  and  scattered,  with  no 
time  to  drag  away  their  wounded. 

The  fight,  or  this  phase  of  it,  was  over  almost  before 
it  was  begun.  It  all  was  one  more  repetition  of  border 
history.  Almost  never  did  the  Indians  make  a  success 
ful  attack  on  a  trading  post,  rarely  on  an  emigrant  train 
in  full  corral.  The  cunning  of  the  Crow  partisan  in 
driving  in  a  prisoner  as  a  fence  had  brought  him  close, 
yes — too  close.  But  the  line  was  not  yet  broken. 

Firing  with  a  steady  aim,  the  emigrants  added  to  the 
toll  they  took.  The  Crows  bent  low  and  flogged  their 
horses.  Only  in  the  distant  willow  thickets  did  they 
pause.  They  even  left  their  dead. 

There  were  no  wounded,  or  not  for  long.  Jackson, 
the  pistol  in  his  hand,  his  face  gray  with  rage  and  pain, 
stepped  outside  the  corral.  The  Crow  chief,  shot 
through  the  chest,  turned  over,  looked  up  dully. 

"How,  cola !"  said  his  late  prisoner,  baring  his  teeth. 

And  what  he  did  with  this  brave  he  did  with  all  the 
247 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

others  of  the  wounded  able  to  move  a  hand.  The  debt 
to  savage  treachery  was  paid,  savagely  enough,  when 
he  turned  back  to  the  wagons,  and  such  was  the  rage 
of  all  at  this  last  assault  that  no  voice  was  raised  to 
stay  his  hand. 

"There's  nothing  like  tobacker,"  asserted  Jackson 
coolly  when  he  had  reentered  the  corral  and  it  came  to 
the  question  of  caring  for  his  arrow  wound.  "Jest  tie 
on  a  good  chaw  o'  tobacker  on  each  side  o'  that  hole 
an*  'twon't  be  long  afore  she's  all  right.  I'm  glad  it 
went  plumb  through.  I've  knowed  a  arrerhead  to  pull 
off  an*  stay  in  when  the  sinew  wroppin's  got  loose  from 
soakin'. 

"Look  at  them  wrists,"  he  added,  holding  up  his 
hands.  "They  twisted  that  rawhide  clean  to  the  bone, 
damn  their  skins !  Pertendin'  to  be  friends !  They  put 
me  in  front  sos't  you'd  let  'em  ride  up  clost — that's 
the  Crow  way,  to  come  right  inter  camp  if  they  can, 
git  in  close  an'  play  friends.  But,  believe  me,  this 
ain't  but  the  beginnin'.  They'll  be  back,  an'  plenty  with 
'em.  Them  Crows  ain't  west  of  the  Pass  fer  only  one 
thing,  an'  that's  this  wagon  train/' 

They  gathered  around  him  now,  plying  him  with 
questions.  Sam  Woodhull  was  among  those  who  came, 
and  him  Jackson  watched  narrowly  every  moment,  his 
own  weapon  handy,  as  he  now  described  the  events  that 
had  brought  him  hither. 

"Our  train  come  inter  the  Sweetwater  two  days  back 
o'  you  all,"  he  said.  "We  seed  you'd  had  a  fight  but 

248 


HOW,  COLA! 

had  went  on.  We  knowed  some  was  hurt,  fer  we  picked 
up  some  womern  fixin's — tattin',  hit  were — with  blood 
on  hit.  And  we  found  buryin's,  the  dirt  different  color.'* 

They  told  him  now  of  the  first  fight,  of  their  losses, 
of  the  wounded;  told  him  of  the  near  escape  of  Molly 
Wingate,  though  out  of  courtesy  to  Woodhull,  who 
stood  near,  they  said  nothing  of  the  interrupted  wed 
ding.  The  old  mountain  man's  face  grew  yet  more 
stern. 

"That  gal !"  he  said.  "Her  shot  by  a  sneakin'  'Rapa- 
hoe?  Ain't  that  a  shame!  But  she's  not  bad — she's 
comin'  through?" 

Molly  Wingate,  who  stood  ready  now  with  bandages, 
told  him  how  alike  the  two  arrow  wounds  had  been. 

"Take  an'  chaw  tobacker,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "Put  a 
hunk  on  each  side,  do-ee  mind,  an'  she'll  be  well." 

"Go  on  and  tell  us  the  rest,"  someone  demanded. 

"Not  much  to  tell  that  ye  couldn't  of  knew,  gentle 
men,"  resumed  the  scout.  "Ef  ye'd  sont  back  fer  us 
we'd  of  jined  ye,  shore,  but  ye  didn't  send." 

"How  could  we  send,  man?"  demanded  Woodhull 
savagely.  "How  could  we  know  where  you  were,  or 
whether  you'd  come — or  whether  you'd  have  been  of 
any  use  if  you  had?" 

"Well,  we  knew  whar  you-all  was,  't  any  rate,"  re 
joined  Jackson.  "We  was  two  days  back  o'  ye,  then 
one  day.  Our  captain  wouldn't  let  us  crowd  in,  fer  he 
said  he  wasn't  welcome  an'  we  wasn't  needed. 

"That  was  ontel  we  struck  the  big  Crow  trail,  with 
249 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

you  all  a  follerin'  o'  hit  blind,  a-chasin'  trouble  as 
hard  as  ye  could.  Then  he  sont  me  on  ahead  to  warn 
ye  an*  to  ask  ef  we  should  jine  on.  We  knowed  the 
Crows  was  down  atter  the  train. 

"I  laid  down  to  sleep,  I  did,  under  a  sagebrush,  in 
the  sun,  like  a  fool.  I  was  beat  out  an'  needed 
sleep,  an'  I  thought  I  was  safe  fer  a  leetle  while. 
When  I  woke  up  it  was  a  whoop  that  done  hit.  They 
was  around  me,  laughin',  twenty  arrers  p'inted,  an' 
some  shot  inter  the  ground  by  my  face.  I  taken  my 
chance,  an'  shook  hands.  They  grabbed  me  an'  tied 
me.  Then  they  made  me  guide  them  in,  like  ye  seen. 
They  maybe  didn't  know  I  come  from  the  east  an'  not 
from  the  west 

"Their  village  is  on  some  creek  above  here.  I  think 
they're  on  a  visit  to  the  Shoshones.  Eight  hundred  men 
they  are,  or  more.  Hit's  more'n  what  it  was  with  the 
Sioux  on  the  Platte,  fer  ye're  not  so  many  now.  An* 
any  time  now  the  main  band  may  come.  Git  ready, 
men.  Fer  me,  I  must  git  back  to  my  own  train.  They 
may  be  back  twenty  mile,  or  thirty.  Would  ary  man 
want  to  ride  with  me  ?  Would  ye,  Sam  Woodhull  ?" 

The  eyes  of  his  associates  rested  on  Woodhull. 

"I  think  one  man  would  be  safer  than  two,"  said 
he.  "My  own  place  is  here  if  there's  sure  to  be  a 
fight." 

"Mebbe  so,"  assented  Jackson.  "In  fack,  I  don't 
know  as  more'n  one'd  git  through  if  you  an'  me  both 
started."  His  cold  gray  eye  was  fixed  on  Woodhull 

250 


HOW,  COLA! 

carelessly.  "An'  ef  hit  was  the  wrong  man  got  througH 
he'd  never  lead  them  Missouri  men  for'rerd  to  where 
this  fight'll  be. 

"An'  hit'll  be  right  here.   Look  yan!"  he  added. 

He  nodded  to  the  westward,  where  a  great  dust  cloud 
arose. 

"More  is  comin',"  said  he.  "Van's  Bannack's  like 
as  not,  er  even  the  Shoshones,  all  I  know,  though 
they're  usual  quiet.  The  runners  is  out  atween  all  the 
tribes.  I  must  be  on  my  way." 

He  hurried  to  find  his  own  horse,  looked  to  its  wel 
fare,  for  it,  too,  had  an  arrow  wound.  As  he  passed 
a  certain  wagon  he  heard  a  voice  call  to  him,  saw  a  hand 
at  the  curtained  front. 

"Miss  Molly !  Hit's  you !  Ye're  not  dead  no  ways, 
then?" 

"Come,"  said  the  girl. 

He  drew  near,  fell  back  at  sight  of  her  thin  face, 
her  pallor;  but  again  she  commanded  him. 

"I  know,"  said  she.   "He's— he's  safe?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Molly,  a  lot  safer'n  any  of  us  here." 

"You're  going  back  to  him  ?" 

"Yes.  When  he  knows  ye're  hurt  he'll  come. 
Nothin'll  stop  him,  oncet  I  tell  him." 

"Wait!"  she  whispered.  "I  heard  you  talk.  Take 
him  this."  She  pushed  into  his  hand  a  folded  paper, 
unsealed,  without  address.  "To  him!"  she  said,  and 
fell  back  on  the  blankets  of  her  rude  pallet. 

At  that  moment  her  mother  was  approaching,  and 
251 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

at  her  side  walked  Woodhull,  actuated  by  his  own  sus 
picions  about  Jackson.  He  saw  the  transaction  of  the 
passed  note  and  guessed  what  he  could  not  know.  He 
tapped  Jackson  on  the  shoulder,  drew  him  aside,  his 
own  face  pale  with  anger. 

"I'm  one  of  the  officers  of  this  train,"  said  he.  "I 
want  to  know  what's  in  that  note.  We  have  no  truck 
with  Banion,  and  you  know  that.  Give  it  to  me." 

Jackson  calmly  tucked  the  paper  into  the  fire  bag 
that  hung  at  his  belt. 

"Come  an'  take  it,  Sam,  damn  ye !"  said  he.  "I  don't 
know  what's  in  hit,  an'  won't  know.  Who  it's  to  ain't 
none  o'  yore  damn  business !" 

"You're  a  cursed  meddler!"  broke  out  Woodhull. 
"You're  a  spy  in  our  camp,  that's  all  you  are !" 

"So !  Well,  cussed  meddler  er  not,  I'm  a  cussed  shore 
shot.  An'  I  advise  ye  to  give  over  on  all  this  an'  mind 
yore  business.  Ye'll  have  plenty  to  do  by  midnight,  an' 
by  that  time  all  yore  womern  an'  children,  all  yore  old 
men  an'  all  yore  cowards'll  be  prayin'  fer  Banion  an* 
his  men  to  come.  That  there  includes  you  somewhere' s, 
Sam.  Don't  temp'  me  too  much  ner  too  long.  I'll  kill 
ye  yit  ef  ye  do !  Git  on  away !" 

They  parted,  each  with  eye  over  shoulder.  Their  talk 
had  been  aside  and  none  had  heard  it  in  full.  But  when 
Woodhull  again  joined  Mrs.  Wingate  that  lady  con 
veyed  to  him  Molly's  refusal  to  see  him  or  to  set  a  time 
for  seeing  him.  Bitterly  angered,  humiliated  to  the 

252 


HOW,  COLA! 

core,  he  turned  back  to  the  men  who  were  completing 
the  defenses  of  the  wagon  park. 

"I  kain't  start  now  afore  dark,"  said  Jackson  to  the 
train  command.  "They're  a-goin'  to  jump  the  train. 
Wheri  they  do  come  they'll  surround  ye  an'  try  to  keep 
ye  back  from  the  water  till  the  stock  goes  crazy.  Lay 
low  an'  don't  let  a  Injun  inside.  Hit  may  be  a  hull  day, 
er  more,  but  when  Banion's  men  come  they'll  come 
a-runnin' — allowin'  I  git  through  to  tell  'em. 

"Dig  in  a  trench  all  the  way  aroun',"  he  added  finally. 
"Put  the  womern  an'  children  in  hit  an'  pile  up  all  yer 
flour  on  top.  Don't  waste  no  powder — let  'em  come 
up  clost  as  they  will.  Hold  on  ontel  we  come." 

At  dusk  he  slipped  away,  the  splash  of  his  horse's 
feet  in  the  ford  coming  fainter  and  fainter,  even  as  the 
hearts  of  some  felt  fainter  as  his  wise  and  sturdy  coun 
sel  left  them.  Naught  to  do  now  but  to  wait. 

They  did  wait — the  women  and  children,  the  old,  the 
ill  and  the  wounded  huddled  shivering  and  crying  in 
the  scooped-out  sand,  hardest  and  coldest  of  beds;  the 
men  in  line  against  the  barricade,  a  circle  of  guards  out 
side  the  wagon  park.  But  midnight  passed,  and  the 
cold  hours  of  dawn,  and  still  no  sign  came  of  an  attack. 
Men  began  to  believe  the  dust  cloud  of  yesterday  no 
more  than  a  false  alarm,  and  the  leaders  were  of  two 
minds,  whether  to  take  Jackson's  counsel  and  wait  for 
the  Missourians,  or  to  hook  up  and  push  on  as  fast  as 
possible  to  Bridger's  fort,  scarce  more  than  two  hard 
days'  journey  on  ahead.  But  before  this  breakfast- 

253 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

hour  discussion  had  gone  far  erents  took  the  decision 
out  of  their  hands. 

"Look !"  cried  a  voice.   "Open  the  gate !" 

The  cattle  guards  and  outposts  who  had  just  driven 
the  herd  to  water  were  now  spurring  for  shelter  and 
hurrying  on  the  loose  stock  ahead  of  them.  And  now, 
from  the  willow  growth  above  them,  from  the  trail 
that  led  to  the  ford  and  from  the  more  open  country  to 
the  westward  there  came,  in  three  great  detachments, 
not  a  band  or  a  body,  but  an  army  of  the  savage  tribes 
men,  converging  steadily  apon  the  wagon  train. 

They  came  slowly,  not  in  a  wild  charge,  not  yelling, 
but  chanting.  The  upper  and  right-hand  bodies  were 
Crows.  Their  faces  were  painted  black,  for  war  and 
for  revenge.  The  band  on  the  left  were  wild  men,  on 
active  half -broke  horses,  their  weapons  for  the  most 
part  bows  and  arrows.  They  later  found  these  to  be 
Bannacks,  belonging  anywhere  but  here,  and  in  any 
alliance  rather  than  with  the  Crows  from  east  of  the 
Pass. 

Nor  did  the  latter  belong  here  to  the  south  and  west, 
far  off  their  own  great  hunting  range.  Obviously  what 
Carson,  Bridger,  Jackson  had  said  was  true.  All  the 
tribes  were  in  league  to  stop  the  great  invasion  of  the 
white  nation,  who  now  were  bringing  their  women  and 
children  and  this  thing  with  which  they  buried  the 
buffalo.  They  meant  extermination  now.  They  were 
taking  their  time  and  would  take  their  revenge  for  the 
dead  who  lay  piled  before  the  white  man's  barricade. 

254  *' 


HOW,  COLA! 

The  emigrants  rolled  back  a  pair  of  wagons,  and  thq 
cattle  were  crowded  through,  almost  over  the  human 
occupants  of  the  oblong.  The  gap  was  closed.  All  the 
remaining  cargo  packages  were  piled  against  the  wheels, 
and  the  noncombatants  sheltered  in  that  way.  Shovels 
deepened  the  trench  here  or  there  as  men  sought  better 
to  protect  their  families* 

And  now  in  a  sudden  mette  of  shouts  and  yells,  o{ 
trampling  hoofs  and  whirling  colors,  the  first  bands  of 
the  Crows  came  charging  up  in  the  attempt  to  carry 
away  their  dead  of  yesterday.  Men  stooped  to  grasp  a 
stiffened  wrist,  a  leg,  a  belt ;  the  ponies  squatted  under 
ghastly  dragging  burdens. 

But  this  brought  them  within  pistol  range.  The  re 
ports  of  the  white  men's  weapons  began,  carefully, 
methodically,  with  deadly  accuracy.  There  was  no  panic. 
The  motionless  or  the  struggling  blotches  ahead  of  the 
wagon  park  grew  and  grew.  A  few  only  of  the  Crows 
got  off  with  bodies  of  their  friends  or  relatives.  One 
warrior  after  another  dropped.  They  were  used  to 
killing  buffalo  at  ten  yards.  The  white  rifles  killed 
their  men  now  regularly  at  a  hundred.  They  drew  off, 
out  of  range. 

Meantime  the  band  from  the  westward  was  round 
ing  up  and  driving  off  every  animal  that  had  not  been 
corralled.  The  emigrants  saw  themselves  in  fair  way  to 
be  set  on  foot. 

Now  the  savage  strategy  became  plain.  The  fight 
was  to  be  a  siege. 

255 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Look !"  Again  a  leader  pointed. 

Crouched  now,  advancing  under  cover  of  the  shallow 
cut-bank,  the  headdresses  of  a  score  of  the  Western 
tribesmen  could  be  seen.  They  sank  down.  The  ford 
was  held,  the  water  was  cut  off!  The  last  covering 
fringe  of  willows  also  was  held.  On  every  side  the 
black-painted  savages  sat  their  ponies,  out  of  range. 
There  could  be  no  more  water  or  grass  for  the  horses 
and  cattle,  no  wood  for  the  camp. 

There  was  no  other  concerted  charge  for  a  long  time. 
Now  and  then  some  painted  brave,  chanting  a  death 
song,  would  ride  slowly  toward  the  wagon  park,  some 
dervish  vow  actuating  him  or  some  bravado  impelling 
him.  But  usually  he  fell. 

It  all  became  a  quiet,  steady,  matter-of-fact  perfor 
mance  on  both  sides.  This  very  freedom  from  action 
and  excitement,  so  different  from  the  gallant  riding  of 
the  Sioux,  was  more  terrifying  than  direct  attack  en 
masse,  so  that  when  it  came  to  a  matter  of  shaken 
morale  the  whites  were  in  as  bad  case  as  their  foes, 
although  thus  far  they  had  had  no  casualty  at  all. 

There  lacked  the  one  leader,  cool,  calm,  skilled,  ex 
perienced,  although  courage  did  not  lack.  Yet  even  the 
best  courage  suffers  when  a  man  hears  the  wailing  of 
his  children  back  of  him,  the  groans  of  his  wife.  As 
the  hours  passed,  with  no  more  than  an  occasional  rifle 
shot  or  the  zhut!  of  an  arrow  ending  its  high  arc,  the 
tension  on  the  nerves  of  the  beleaguered  began  to 
manifest  itself. 

256 


HOW,  COLA! 

At  midday  the  children  began  to  cry  for  water.  They 
were  appeased  with  milk  from  the  few  cows  offering 
tnilk;  but  how  long  might  that  last,  with  the  cattle 
themselves  beginning  to  moan  and  low? 

"How  far  are  they  back?" 

It  was  Hall,  leader  of  the  Ohio  wagons.  But  none 
could  tell  him  where  the  Missouri  train  had  paused. 
Wingate  alone  knew  why  Banion  had  not  advanced. 
He  doubted  if  he  would  come  now. 

"And  this  all  was  over  the  quarrel  between  two 
men,"  said  Caleb  Price  to  his  friend  Wingate. 

"The  other  man  is  a  thief,  Cale,"  reiterated  Wingate. 
'He  was  court-martialed  and  broke,  dishonorably  dis 
charged  from  the  Army.  He  was  under  Colonel  Doni- 
phan,  and  had  control  of  subsistence  in  upper  Mexico 
for  some  time.  He  had  the  regimental  funds.  Doni- 
phan  was  irregular.  He  ran  his  regiment  like  a  mess, 
and  might  order  first  this  officer,  then  that,  of  the  line 
or  staff,  to  take  on  his  free-for-all  quartermaster  trains. 
But  he  was  honest.  Banion  was  not.  He  had  him 
broken.  The  charges  were  filed  by  Captain  Woodhull. 
Well,  is  it  any  wonder  there  is  no  love  lost?  And  is 
it  any  wonder  I  wouldn't  train  up  with  a  thief,  or  allow 
him  to  visit  in  my  family?  By  God!  right  now  I 
wouldn't ;  and  I  didn't  send  for  him  to  help  us !" 

"So!"  said  Caleb  Price.  "So!  And  that  was  why 
the  wedding " 

"Yes !  A  foolish  fancy  of  a  girl.  I  don't  know  what 
passed  between  her  and  Banion.  I  felt  it  safer  for  my 

257 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

daughter  to  be  married,  as  soon  as  could  be,  to  another 
man,  an  honest  man.  You  know  how  that  came  out. 
And  now,  when  she's  as  apt  to  die  as  live,  and  we're 
all  as  apt  to,  you  others  send  for  that  renegade  to  save 
us !  I  have  no  confidence  that  he  will  come.  I  hope  he 
will  not.  I'd  like  his  rifles,  but  I  don't  want  him." 

"Well,"  said  Caleb  Price,  "it  is  odd  how  his  rifles 
depend  on  him  and  not  on  the  other  man.  Yet  they 
both  lived  in  the  same  town." 

"Yes,  one  man  may  be  more  plausible  than  another." 

"Yes?  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  a  man  more 
plausible  with  his  fists  than  Major  Banion  was.  Yes, 
I'll  call  him  plausible.  I  wish  some  of  us — say,  Sam 
Woodhull,  now — could  be  half  as  plausible  with  these 
Crows.  Difference  in  men,  Jess!"  he  concluded. 
"Woodhull  was  there — and  now  he's  here.  He's  here 
— and  now  we're  sending  there  for  the  other  man." 

"You  want  that  other  man,  thief  and  dishonest  as 
he  is?" 

"By  God !  yes !  I  want  his  rifles  and  him  too.  Wo 
men,  children  and  all,  the  whole  of  us,  will  die  if  that 
thief  doesn't  come  inside  of  another  twenty-four 
hours." 

Wingate  flung  out  his  arms,  walked  away,  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back.  He  met  Woodhull. 

"Sam,  what  shall  we  do?"  he  demanded.  "You're 
sort  of  in  charge  now.  You've  been  a  soldier,  and  we 
haven't  had  much  of  that." 

"There   are   fifteen   hundred   or   two   thousand   of 

258 


HOW,  COLA! 

them,"  said  Woodhull  slowly — "a  hundred  and  fifty 
of  us  that  can  fight.  Ten  to  one,  and  they  mean  no 
quarter." 

"But  what  shall  we  do?" 

"What  can  we  but  lie  close  and  hold  the  wagons  ?" 

"And  wait?" 

"Yes." 

"Which  means  only  the  Missouri  men!" 

"There's  no  one  else.  We  don't  know  that  they're 
alive.  We  don't  know  that  they  will  come." 

"But  one  thing  I  do  know" — his  dark  face  gathered 
in  a  scowl — "if  he  doesn't  come  it  will  not  be  because 
he  was  not  asked!  That  fellow  carried  a  letter  from 
Molly  to  him.  I  know  that.  Well,  what  do  you-all 
think  of  me?  What's  my  standing  in  all  this?  If  I've 
not  been  shamed  and  humiliated,  how  can  a  man  be? 
And  what  am  I  to  expect?" 

"If  we  get  through,  if  Molly  lives,  you  mean?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  quit  what  I  want.  I'll  never  give  her 
up.  You  give  me  leave  to  try  again?  Things  may 
change.  She  may  consider  the  wrong  she's  done  me, 
an  honest  man.  It's  his  hanging  around  all  the  time, 
keeping  in  her  mind.  And  now  we've  sent  for  him — 
and  so  has  she !" 

They  walked  apart,  Wingate  to  his  wagon. 

"How  is  she?"  he  asked  of  his  wife,  nodding  to 
Molly's  wagon. 

"Better  some  ways,  but  low,"  replied  his  stout  help 
mate,  herself  haggard,  dark  circles  of  fatigue  about  her 

259 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

eyes.  "She  won't  eat,  even  with  the  fever  down.  If  we 
was  back  home  where  we  could  get  things !  Jess,  what 
made  us  start  for  Oregon?" 

"What  made  us  leave  Kentucky  for  Indiana,  and 
Indiana  for  Illinois  ?  I  don't  know.  God  help  us  now !" 

"It's  bad,  Jesse." 

"Yes,  it's  bad."  Suddenly  he  took  his  wife's  face  in 
his  hands  and  kissed  her  quietly.  "Kiss  Little  Molly 
for  me/'  he  said.  "I  wish — I  wish " 

"I  wish  them  other  wagons'd  come,"  said  Molly  Win- 
gate.  "Then  we'd  see !" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    FIGHT    AT    THE    FORD 

JACKSON,  wounded  and  weary  as  he  was,  drove 
his  crippled  horse  so  hard  all  the  night  through 
that  by  dawn  he  had  covered  almost  fifty  miles, 
and  was  in  sight  of  the  long  line  of  wagons,  crawling 
like  a  serpent  down  the  slopes  west  of  the  South  Pass, 
a  cloud  of  bitter  alkali  dust  hanging  like  a  blanket  over 
them.  No  part  of  the  way  had  been  more  cheerless 
than  this  gray,  bare  expanse  of  more  than  a  hundred 
miles,  and  none  offered  less  invitation  for  a  bivouac. 
But  now  both  man  and  horse  were  well-nigh  spent. 

Knowing  that  he  would  be  reached  within  an  hour  or 
so  at  best,  Jackson  used  the  last  energies  of  his  horse 
in  riding  back  and  forth  at  right  angles  across  the  trail, 
the  Plains  sign  of  "Come  to  me !"  He  hoped  it  would 
be  seen.  He  flung  himself  down  across  the  road,  in  the 
dust,  his  bridle  tied  to  his  wrist.  His  horse,  now 
nearly  gone,  lay  down  beside  him,  nor  ever  rose  again. 
And  here,  in  the  time  a  gallop  could  bring  them  up, 
Banion  and  three  of  his  men  found  them,  one  dead,  the 
other  little  better. 

"Bill!   Bill!" 

The  voice  of  Banion  was  anxious  as  he  lightly  shook 
261 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

the  shoulder  of  the  prone  man,  half  afraid  that  he,  too, 
had  died.  Stupid  in  sleep,  the  scout  sprang  up,  rifle  in 
hand. 

"Who's  thar?" 

"Hold,  Bill!   Friends!   Easy  now!" 

The  old  man  pulled  together,  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"I  must  of  went  to  sleep  agin,"  said  he.  "My  horse 
— pshaw  now,  pore  critter,  do-ee  look  now !" 

In  rapid  words  he  now  told  his  errand.  They  could 
see  the  train  accelerating  its  speed.  Jackson  felt  in  the 
bag  at  his  belt  and  handed  Banion  the  folded  paper. 
He  opened  the  folds  steadily,  read  the  words  again 
and  again. 

"  'Come  to  us/  "  is  what  it  says.  He  spoke  to  Jack 
son. 

"Ye're  a  damned*Jiar,  Will,"  remarked  Jackson. 

"I'll  read  it  all !"  said  Banion  suddenly. 

"  'Will  Banion,  come  to  me,  or  it  may  be  too  late. 
There  never  was  any  wedding.  I  am  the  most  wicked 
and  most  unhappy  woman  in  the  world.  You  owe  me 
nothing !  But  come !  M.  W/ 

"That's  what  it  says.  Now  you  know.  Tell  me — 
you  heard  of  no  wedding  back  at  Independence  Rock  ? 
They  said  nothing?  He  and  she " 

"Ef  they  was  ever  any  weddin'  hit  was  a  damned 
pore  sort,  an*  she  says  thar  wasn't  none.  She'd  orto 
know." 

"Can  you  ride,  Jackson?" 

"Span  in  six  fast  mules  for  a  supply  wagon,  such  as 
262 


THE  FIGHT  AT  THE  FORD 

kin  gallop.  I'll  sleep  in  that  a  hour  or  so.  Git  yore  men 
started,  Will.  We  may  be  too  late.  It's  nigh  fifty  mile 
to  the  ford  o'  the  Green." 

It  came  near  to  mutiny  when  Banion  ordered  a  third 
of  his  men  to  stay  back  with  the  ox  teams  and  the 
families.  Fifty  were  mounted  and  ready  in  five  min 
utes.  They  were  followed  by  two  fast  wagons.  In  one 
of  these  rolled  Bill  Jackson,  unconscious  of  the  rough 
ness  of  the  way. 

On  the  Sandy,  twenty  miles  from  the  ford,  they 
wakened  him. 

"Now  tell  me  how  it  lies,"  said  Banion.  "How's 
the  country  ?" 

Jackson  drew  a  sketch  on  the  sand. 

"They'll  surround,  an'  they'll  cut  off  the  water." 

"Can  we  ford  above  and  come  in  behind  them?" 

"We  mout  Send  half  straight  to  the  ford  an'  half 
come  in  behind,  through  the  willers,  huh?  That'd  put 
'em  atween  three  fires.  Ef  we  driv'  'em  on  the  wagons 
they'd  get  hell  thar,  an'  ef  they  broke,  the  wagons  could 
chase  'em  inter  us  again.  I  allow  we'd  give  'em  hell. 
Hit's  the  Crows  I'm  most  a-skeered  of.  The  Bannacks 
— ef  that's  who  they  was — '11  run  easy." 

At  sunset  of  that  day  the  emigrants,  now  half  mad 
of  thirst,  and  half  ready  to  despair  of  succor  or  success, 
heard  the  Indian  drums  sound  and  the  shrilling  of  the 
eagle-bone  whistles.  The  Crows  were  chanting  again. 
Whoops  arose  along  the  river  bank. 

"My  God !  they're  coming !"  called  out  a  voice. 
263 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

There  was  a  stir  of  uneasiness  along  the  line,  an 
ominous  thing.  And  then  the  savage  hosts  broke  from 
their  cover,  more  than  a  thousand  men,,  ready  to  take 
some  loss  in  their  hope  that  the  whites  were  now  more 
helpless.  In  other  circumstances  it  must  have  been  a 
stirring  spectacle  for  any  who  had  seen  it.  To  these, 
cowering  in  the  sand,  it  brought  terror. 

But  before  the  three  ranks  of  the  Crows  had  cleared 
the  cover  the  last  line  began  to  yell,  to  whip,  to  break 
away.  Scattering  but  continuous  rifle  fire  followed 
them,  war  cries  arose,  not  from  savages,  but  white 
men.  A  line  of  riders  emerged,  coming  straight 
through  to  the  second  rank  of  the  Crow  advance.  Then 
the  beleaguered  knew  that  the  Missourians  were  up. 

"Banion,  by  God !"  said  a  voice  which  few  stopped 
to  recognize  as  Woodhull's. 

He  held  his  fire,  his  rifle  resting  so  long  through  the 
wagon  wheel  that  Caleb  Price  in  one  s\\oft  motion 
caught  it  away  from  him. 

"No  harm,  friend,"  said  he,  "but  you'll  not  need  this 
just  now!" 

His  cold  eye  looked  straight  into  that  of  the  intending 
murderer. 

The  men  in  the  wagon  park  rose  to  their  work  again. 
The  hidden  Bannacks  began  to  break  away  from  their 
lodgment  under  the  river  bank.  The  sound  of  hoofs 
and  of  shouts  came  down  the  trail.  The  other  wing 
of  the  Missourians  flung  off  and  cleared  the  ford  before 
they  undertook  to  cross,  their  slow,  irregular,  deadly 

264 


THE  FIGHT  AT  THE  FORD 

rifle  fire  doing  its  work  among  the  hidden  Bannacks 
until  they  broke  and  ran  for  their  horses  in  the  cotton- 
woods  below.  This  brought  them  partly  into  view, 
and  the  rifles  of  the  emigrants  on  that  side  bore  on 
them  till  they  broke  in  sheer  terror  and  fled  in  a  scat 
tered  sauve  qui  peut. 

The  Crows  swerved  under  the  enfilading  fire  of  the 
men  who  now  crossed  the  ford.  Caught  between  three 
fires,  and  meeting  for  their  first  time  the  use  of  the 
revolver,  then  new  to  them,  they  lost  heart  and  once 
more  left  their  dead,  breaking  away  into  a  mad  flight 
west  and  north  which  did  not  end  till  they  had  forded 
the  upper  tributaries  of  the  Green  and  Snake,  and  found 
their  way  back  west  of  the  Tetons  to  their  own  country 
far  east  and  north  of  the  Two-go-tee  crossing  of  the 
Wind  River  Mountains ;  whence  for  many  a  year  they 
did  not  emerge  again  to  battle  with  the  white  nation  on 
the  Medicine  Road.  At  one  time  there  were  forty  Crow 
squaws,  young  and  old,  with  gashed  breasts  and  self- 
amputated  fingers,  given  in  mourning  over  the  unre- 
turning  brave. 

What  many  men  had  not  been  able  to  do  of  their 
own  resources,  less  than  a  fourth  their  number  now  had 
done.  Side  by  side  Banion,  Jackson,  a  half  dozen 
others,  rode  up  to  the  wagon  gap,  now  opened.  They 
were  met  by  a  surge  of  the  rescued.  Women,  girls 
threw  themselves  upon  them,  kissing  them,  embracing 
them  hysterically.  Where  had  been  gloom,  now  was 
rejoicing,  laughter,  tears. 

265 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

The  leaders  of  the  emigrants  came  up  to  Banion  and 
his  men,  Wingate  in  advance.  Banion  still  sat  his  great 
black  horse,  coldly  regarding  them. 

"I  have  kept  my  promise,  Captain  Wingate/'  said 
he.  "I  have  not  come  until  you  sent  for  me.  Let  me 
ask  once  more,  do  I  owe  you  anything  now?" 

"No,  sir,  you  do  not,"  replied  the  older  man. 

"And  do  you  owe  me  anything?" 

Wingate  did  not  answer. 

"Name  what  you  like,  Major  Banion,"  said  a  voice 
at  his  shoulder — Caleb  Price. 

Banion  turned  to  him  slowly. 

"Some  things  have  no  price,  sir,"  said  he.  "For 
other  things  I  shall  ask  a  high  price  in  time.  Captain 
Wingate,  your  daughter  asked  me  to  come.  If  I  may 
see  her  a  moment,  and  carry  back  to  my  men  the  hope 
of  her  recovery,  we  shall  all  feel  well  repaid." 

Wingate  made  way  with  the  others.  Banion  rode 
straight  through  the  gap,  with  no  more  than  one  unsee 
ing  glance  at  Woodhull,  near  whom  sat  Jackson,  a  pistol 
resting  on  his  thigh.  He  came  to  the  place  under  a 
wagon  where  they  had  made  a  hospital  cot  for  Molly 
Wingate.  It  was  her  own  father  and  mother  who 
lifted  her  out  as  Will  Banion  sprang  down,  hat  in  hand, 
pale  in  his  own  terror  at  seeing  her  so  pale. 

"No,  don't  go!"  said  the  girl  to  her  parents.  "Be 
here  with  us — and  God." 

She  held  out  her  arms  and  he  bent  above  her,  kissing 
her  forehead  gently  and  shyly  as  a  boy. 

266 


THE  FIGHT  AT  THE  FORD 

"Please  get  well,  Molly  Wingate,"  said  he.  "You 
are  Molly  Wingate?" 

"Yes.  At  the  end — I  couldn't!  I  ran  away,  all  in 
my  wedding  clothes,  Will.  In  the  dark.  Someone  shot 
me.  I've  been  sick,  awfully  sick,  Will." 

"Please  get  well,  Molly  Wingate!  I'm  going  away 
again.  This  time,  I  don't  know  where.  Can't  you 
forget  me,  Molly  Wingate?" 

"I'm  going  to  try,  Will.  I  did  try.  Go  on  ahead, 
Will,"  she  added.  "You  know  what  I  mean.  Do  what 
I  told  you.  I— why,  Will !" 

"My  poor  lamb !"  said  the  strong  voice  of  her  mother, 
who  gathered  her  in  her  arms,  looking  over  her  shoulder 
at  this  man  to  whom  her  child  had  made  no  vows. 
But  Banion,  wet  eyed,  was  gone  once  more. 

Jackson  saw  his  leader  out  of  the  wagon  gap,  headed 
for  a  camping  spot  far  apart.  He  stumbled  up  to  the 
cot  where  Molly  lay,  her  silent  parents  still  close  by. 

"Here,  Miss  Molly,  gal,"  said  he,  holding  out 
some  object  in  his  hand.  "We  both  got  a  arrer 
through  the  shoulder,  an'  mine's  a'most  well  a'ready. 
Ain't  nothin'  in  the  world  like  a  good  chaw  o'  tobackerr 
to  put  on  a  arrer  cut.  Do-ee,  now !" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING ! 

THE  Missourians  camped  proudly  and  coldly 
apart,  the  breach  between  the  two  factions 
by  no  means  healed,  but  rather  deepened,  even 
if  honorably  so,  and  now  well  understood  of  all. 

Most  men  of  both  parties  now  knew  of  the  feud  be 
tween  Banion  and  Woodhull,  and  the  cause  underlying 
it.  Woman  gossip  did  what  it  might.  A  half  dozen  de 
termined  men  quietly  watched  Woodhull.  As  many 
continually  were  near  Banion,  although  for  quite  a 
different  reason.  All  knew  that  time  alone  must  work 
out  the  answer  to  this  implacable  quarrel,  and  that  the 
friends  of  the  two  men  could  not  possibly  train  up 
together. 

After  all,  when  in  sheer  courtesy  the  leaders  of  the 
Wingate  train  came  over  to  the  Missouri  camp  on  the 
following  day  there  came  nearer  to  being  a  good  under 
standing  than  there  ever  had  been  since  the  first  break. 
It  was  agreed  that  all  the  wagons  should  go  on  together 
as  far  as  Fort  Bridger,  and  that  beyond  that  point  the 
train  should  split  into  two  or  perhaps  three  bodies — a 
third  if  enough  Woodhull  adherents  could  be  found 
to  make  him  up  a  train.  First  place,  second  and  third 
Were  to  be  cast  by  lot.  They  all  talked  soberly,  fairly, 
with  the  dignity  of  men  used  to  good  standing  among 

268 


THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING! 

men.  These  matters  concluded,  and  it  having  been 
agreed  that  all  should  lie  by  for  another  day,  they  re 
solved  the  meeting  into  one  of  better  fellowship. 

Old  Bill  Jackson,  lying  against  his  blanket  roll,  fell 
into  reminiscence. 

"Times  past,"  said  he,  "the  Green  River  Rendyvous 
was  helt  right  in  here.  I've  seed  this  place  spotted  with 
tepees — hull  valley  full  o'  Company  men  an'  free  trap 
pers  an'  pack-train  people — time  o'  Ashley  an'  Sublette 
an'  my  Uncle  Jackson  an'  all  them  traders.  That  was 
right  here  on  the  Green.  Ever'body  drunk  an'  happy, 
like  I  ain't  now.  Mounting  men  togged  out,  new  leg- 
gin's  an'  moccasins  their  womern  had  made,  warriors 
painted  up  a  inch  o'  their  lives,  an'  women  with  brass 
wire  an'  calico  all  they  wanted — maybe  two-three  thou 
sand  people  in  the  Rendyvous. 

"But  I  never  seed  the  grass  so  short,  an'  I  never  seed 
so  much  fightin'  afore  in  all  my  life  as  I  have  this 
trip.  This  is  the  third  time  we're  jumped,  an'  this 
time  we're  lucky,  shore  as  hell.  Pull  on  through  to 
Bridger  an'  fix  yer  wagons  afore  they  tumble  apart. 
Leave  the  grass  fer  them  that  follows,  an'  git  on  fur's 
you  kin,  every  wagon.  We  ain't  likely  to  have  no  more 
trouble  now.  Pile  up  them  braves  in  one  heap  fer  a 
warnin'  to  any  other  bunch  o'  reds  that  may  come 
along  to  hide  around  the  wagon  ford.  New  times  has 
come  on  the  Green." 

"Can  you  travel,  Jackson?"  asked  Hall  of  Ohio. 
"You've  had  a  hard  time." 

269 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Who  ?  Me  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  Give  me  time  to 
pick  up  some  o'  them  bows  an'  arrers  an*  I'm  ready  to 
start.  I  noticed  a  right  fine  horn  bow  one  o'  them 
devils  had — the  Crows  allus  had  good  bows.  That's 
the  yaller-an'-red  brave  that  was  itchin'  so  long  to  slap 
a  arrer  through  my  ribs  from  behind.  I'd  like  to  keep 
his  bow  f  er  him,  him  not  needin'  it  now." 

Before  the  brazen  sun  had  fully  risen  on  the  second 
day  these  late  peaceful  farmers  of  Ohio,  Iowa,  Illinois, 
Indiana,  Missouri  were  plodding  along  once  more  be 
side  their  sore- footed  oxen ;  passing  out  unaided  into  a 
land  which  many  leading  men  in  the  Government, 
North  and  South,  and  quite  aside  from  political  affilia 
tions,  did  not  value  at  five  dollars  for  it  all,  though  still 
a  thousand  miles  of  it  lay  ahead. 

"Oh,  then,  Susannah!"  roared  Jed  Wingate,  trudg 
ing  along  beside  Molly's  wagon  in  the  sand.  "Don't 
you  cry  fer  me — I'm  going  through  to  Oregon,  with 
my  banjo  on  my  knee!" 

Fair  as  a  garden  to  the  sun-seared  eyes  of  the 
emigrants  seemed  the  mountain  post,  Fort  Bridger, 
when  its  rude  stockade  separated  itself  from  the  dis 
tortions  of  the  desert  mirage,  whose  citadels  of  silence, 
painted  temples  fronted  with  colossal  columns,  giant 
sphinxes,  vast  caryatids,  lofty  arches,  fretwork  fagades, 
fantastically  splendid  castles  and  palaces  now  resolved 
themselves  into  groups  of  squat  pole  structures  and  a 
rude  stock  corral. 

270 


THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING! 

The  site  of  the  post  itself  could  not  better  have  been 
chosen.  Here  the  flattened  and  dividing  waters  of  the 
Black's  Fork,  icy  cold  and  fresh  from  the  Uintah 
Mountains  to  the  southward,  supported  a  substantial 
growth  of  trees,  green  now  and  wonderfully  refresh 
ing  to  desert-weary  eyes. 

"The  families  are  coming!" 

Bridger's  clerk,  Chardon,  raised  the  new  cry  of  the 
trading  post 

"Broke  an'  hungry,  I'll  bet !"  swore  old  Jim  Bridger 
in  his  beard. 

But  he  retired  into  his  tepee  and  issued  orders  to 
his  Shoshone  squaw,  who  was  young  and  pretty.  Her 
name,  as  he  once  had  said,  was  Dang  Yore  Eyes — and 
she  was  very  proud  of  it.  Philosophical  withal,  though 
smarting  under  recent  blows  of  her  white  lord,  she 
now  none  the  less  went  out  and  erected  once  more  in 
front  of  the  tepee  the  token  Bridger  had  kicked  down — 
the  tufted  lance,  the  hair- fringed  bull-neck  shield,  the 
sacred  medicine  bundle  which  had  stood  in  front  of 
Jeem's  tepee  in  the  Rendezvous  on  Horse  Creek,  what 
time  he  had  won  her  in  a  game  of  hands.  Where 
upon  the  older  squaw,  not  young,  pretty  or  jealous, 
abused  him  in  Ute  and  went  out  after  wood.  Her 
name  was  Blast  Your  Hide,  and  she  also  was  very 
proud  of  her  white  name.  Whereafter  both  Dang 
Yore  Eyes  and  Blast  Yore  Hide,  female,  and  hence 
knowing  the  moods  of  man,  wisely  hid  out  for  a 
while.  They  knew  when  Jeem  had  the  long  talk  with 

271 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

the  sick  white  squaw,  who  was  young,  but  probably 
needed  bitter  bark  of  the  cotton  wood  to  cure  her  fever. 

Painted  Utes  and  Shoshones  stood  about,  no  more 
silent  than  the  few  local  mountaineers,  bearded,  beaded 
and  fringed,  who  still  after  some  mysterious  fashion 
clung  to  the  old  life  at  the  post.  Against  the  new 
comers,  profitable  as  they  were,  still  existed  the  an 
cient  antipathy  of  the  resident  for  the  nonresident. 

"My  land  sakes  alive!"  commented  stoical  Molly 
Wingate  after  they  had  made  some  inquiries  into  the 
costs  of  staples  here.  "This  store  ain't  no  place  to 
trade.  They  want  fifty  dollars  a  sack  for  flour — what 
do  you  think  of  that?  We  got  it  for  two  dollars 
back  home.  And  sugar  a  dollar  a  tin  cup,  and  just 
plain  salt  two  bits  a  pound,  and  them  to  guess  at  the 
pound.  Do  they  think  we're  Indians,  or  what?" 

"It's  the  tenth  day  of  August,  and  a  thousand  miles 
ahead,"  commented  Caleb  Price.  "And  we're  beyond 
the  buffalo  now." 

"And  Sis  is  in  trouble,"  added  Jed  Wingate.  "The 
light  wagon's  got  one  hind  spindle  half  in  two,  and 
I've  spliced  the  hind  ex  for  the  last  time." 

Jackson  advanced  an  idea. 

"At  Fort  Hall,"  he  said,  "I've  seed  'em  cut  a  wagon 
in  two  an'  make  a  two-wheel  cart  out'n  hit.  They're 
easier  to  git  through  mountains  that  way." 

"Now  listen  to  that,  Jesse!"  Mrs.  Wingate  com 
mented.  "It's  getting  down  to  less  and  less  every  day. 
But  I'm  going  to  take  my  bureau  through,  and  my 

272 


THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING! 

wheat,  and  my  rose  plants,  if  I  have  to  put  wheels  on 
my  bureau." 

The  men  determined  to  saw  down  three  wagons  of 
the  train  which  now  seemed  doubtful  of  survival  as 
quadrupeds,  and  a  general  rearrangement  of  cargoes 
was  agreed.  Now  they  must  jettison  burden  of 
every  dispensable  sort.  Some  of  the  sore-necked  oxen 
were  to  be  thrown  into  the  loose  herd  and  their  places 
taken  for  a  time  by  cows  no  longer  offering  milk. 
/  A  new  soberness  began  to  sit  on  all.  The  wide 
reaches  of  desert  with  which  they  here  were  in  touch 
appalled  their  hearts  more  than  anything  they  yet  had 
met.  The  grassy  valley  of  the  Platte,  where  the  great 
fourfold  tracks  of  the  trail  cut  through  a  waving  sea 
of  green  belly  deep  to  the  oxen,  had  seemed  easy  and 
inviting,  and  since  then  hardship  had  at  least  been 
spiced  with  novelty  and  change.  But  here  was  a  new 
and  forbidding  land.  /This  was  the  Far  West  itself; 
silent,  inscrutable,  unchanged,  irreducible.  The 
mightiness  of  its  calm  was  a  smiting  thing.  The  awe- 
someness  of  its  chill,  indifferent  nights,  the  unsparing 
ardors  of  its  merciless  noons,  the  measureless  expanses 
of  its  levels,  the  cold  barrenness  of  its  hills — these 
things  did  not  invite  as  to  the  bosom  of  a  welcoming 
mother;  they  repelled,  as  with  the  chill  gesture  of  a 
stranger  turning  away  outcasts  from  the  door.  ^ 

"Here  resolution  almost  faints!"  wrote  one. 

A  general  requisition  was  made  on  the  scant  stores 
Bridger   had   hurried   through.      Jo   their    surprise, 

273 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Bridger  himself  made  no  attempt  at  frontier  profits. 

"Chardon,"  commanded  the  moody  master  of  the 
post  to  his  head  clerk,  "take  down  your  tradin'  bar  an* 
let  my  people  in.  Sell  them  their  flour  an'  meal  at 
what  it  has  cost  us  here — all  they  want,  down  to  what 
the  post  will  need  till  my  partner  Vasquez  brings  in 
more  next  fall,  if  he  ever  does.  Sell  'em  their  flour  at 
four  dollars  a  sack,  an'  not  at  fifty,  boy.  Git  out  that 
flag  I  saved  from  Subletted  outfit,  Chardon.  Put  it 
on  a  pole  for  these  folks,  an'  give  it  to  them  so's  they 
kin  carry  it  on  acrost  to  Oregon.  God's  got  some 
use  for  them  folks  out  yan  or  hit  wouldn't  be  hap- 
penin'  this  way.  I'm  goin'  to  help  'em  acrost.  Ef  I 
don't,  old  Jim  Bridger  is  a  liar!" 

That  night  Bridger  sat  in  his  lodge  alone,  moodily 
smoking.  He  heard  a  shaking  at  the  pegs  of  the  door 
flap. 

"Get  out!"  he  exclaimed,  thinking  that  it  was  his 
older  associate,  or  else  some  intruding  dog. 

His  order  was  not  obeyed.  Will  Banion  pulled  back 
the  flap,  stooped  and  entered. 

"How!"  exclaimed  Bridger,  and  with  fist  smitten 
on  the  blankets  made  the  sign  to  "Sit!"  Banion  for 
a  time  also  smoked  in  silence,  knowing  the  moody  ways 
of  the  old-time  men. 

"Ye  came  to  see  me  about  her,  Miss  Molly,  didn't 
ye?"  began  Bridger  after  a  long  time,  kicking  the 
embers  of  the  tepee  fire  together  with  the  toe  of  his 
moccasin. 

274 


THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING! 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I  kin  read  signs." 

"Yes,  she  sent  me." 

"When?" 

"That  was  at  Laramie.  She  told  me  to  come  on 
with  you  then.  I  could  not" 

'Tore  child,  they  mout  'a'  killed  her !  She  told  me 
she'd  git  well,  though — told  me  so  to-day.  I  had  a  talk 
with  her."  His  wrinkled  face  broke  into  additional 
creases.  "She  told  me  more !" 

"I've  no  wonder." 

"Ner  me.  Ef  I  was  more  young  and  less  Injun  I'd 
love  that  gal !  I  do,  anyhow,  f er  sake  o'  what  I  might 
of  been  ef  I  hadn't  had  to  play  my  game  the  way  the 
cards  said  fer  me. 

"She  told  me  she  was  shot  on  her  weddin'  night, 
in  her  weddin'  clothes — right  plum  to  the  time  an'  min 
ute  o'  marryin,  then  an'  thar.  She  told  me  she  thanked 
God  the  Injun  shot  her,  an'  she  wished  to  God  he'd 
killed  her  then  an'  thar.  I'd  like  such  fer  a  bride,  huh? 
That's  one  hell  of  a  weddin',  huh?  Why?" 

Banion  sat  silent,  staring  at  the  embers. 

"I  know  why,  or  part  ways  why.  Kit  an'  me  was 
drunk  at  Laramie.  I  kain't  remember  much.  But 
I  do  ree-colleck  Kit  said  something  to  me  about  you 
in  the  Army,  with  Donerphan  in  Mayheeco.  Right 
then  I  gits  patriotic.  'Hooray!'  says  I.  Then  we 
taken  another  drink.  After  that  we  fell  to  arguin' 
how  much  land  we'd  git  out  o'  Mayheeco  when  the 

275 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

treaty  was  signed.  He  said  hit  war  done  signed  now, 
or  else  hit  warn't.  I  don't  ree-colleck  which,  but  hit 
was  one  or  t'other.  He  had  papers.  Ef  I  see  Kit  agin 
ary  time  now  I'll  ast  him  what  his  papers  was.  I  don't 
ree-colleck  exact. 

"All  that,  ye  see,  boy,"  he  resumed,  "was  atter  I 
was  over  to  the  wagons  at  Laramie,  when  I  seed 
Miss  Molly  to  say  good-by  to  her.  I  reckon  maybe 
I  was  outside  o'  sever'l  horns  even  then." 

"And  that  was  when  you  gave  her  the  California 
nugget  that  Kit  Carson  had  given  you !"  Banion  spoke 
at  last. 

"Oh,  ye  spring  no  surprise,  boy!  She  told  me  to 
day  she'd  told  you  then ;  said  she'd  begged  you  to  go 
on  with  me  an'  beat  all  the  others  to  Calif orny;  said 
she  wanted  you  to  git  rich ;  said  you  an'  her  had  parted, 
an'  she  wanted  you  to  live  things  down.  I  was  to  tell 
ye  that. 

"Boy,  she  loves  ye — not  me  ner  that  other  man.  The 
Injun  womern  kin  love  a  dozen  men.  The  white 
womern  kain't.  I'm  still  fool  white  enough  fer  to  be 
lieve  that.  Of  course  she'd  break  her  promise  not  to 
tell  about  the  gold.  I  might  'a'  knowed  she'd  tell  the 
man  she  loved.  Well,  she  didn't  wait  long.  How 
long  was  hit  afore  she  done  so — about  ten  minutes? 
Boy,  she  loves  ye.  Hit  ain't  no  one  else." 

"I  think  so.     I'm  afraid  so." 

"Why  don't  ye  marry  her  then,  damn  ye,  right  here? 
Ef  a  gal  loves  a  man  he  orto  marry  her,  ef  only  to  cure 

276 


THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING! 

her  o'  bein'  a  damn  fool  to  love  any  man.  Why  don't 
you  marry  her  right  now?" 

"Because  I  love  her !" 

Bridger  sat  in  disgusted  silence  for  some  time. 

"Well,"  said  he  at  last,  "there's  some  kinds  o' 
damned  fools  that  kain't  be  cured  noways.  I  expect 
you're  one  o'  them.  Me,  I  hain't  so  highfalutin'.  Ef 
I  love  a  womern,  an'  her  me,  somethin's  goin'  to  hap 
pen.  What's  this  here  like?  Nothin'  happens.  Son, 
it's  when  nothin'  happens  that  somethin'  else  does  hap 
pen.  She  marries  another  man — barrin'  'Rapahoes.  A 
fool  fer  luck — that's  you.  But  there  mightn't  always 
be  a  Injun  hidin'  to  shoot  her  when  she  gits  dressed 
up  agin  an'  the  minister  is  a-waitin'  to  pernounce  'em 
man  an'  wife.  Then  whar  air  ye?" 

He  went  on  more  kindly  after  a  time,  as  he  reached 
out  a  hard,  sinewy  hand. 

"Such  as  her  is  fer  the  young  man  that  has  a  white 
man's  full  life  to  give  her.  She's  purty  as  a  doe  fawn 
an'  kind  as  a  thoroughbred  filly.  In  course  ye  loved 
her,  boy.  How  could  ye  a-help  hit  ?  An'  ye  was  willin' 
to  go  to  Oregon — ye'd  plow  rather'n  leave  sight  o' 
her?  I  don't  blame  ye,  boy.  Such  as  her  is  not  sup 
ported  by  rifle  an'  trap.  Hit's  the  home  smoke,  not  the 
tepee  fire,  for  her.  I  ask  ye  nothin'  more,  boy.  I'll 
not  ask  ye  what  ye  mean.  Man  an'  boy,  I've  follered 
the  tepee  smokes — blue  an'  a-movin'  an'  a-beckonin' 
they  was — an'  I  never  set  this  hand  to  no  plow  in  all 
my  life.  But  in  my  heart  two  things  never  was  wiped 

277 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

out — the  sight  o'  the  white  womern's  face  an'  the  sight 
o'  the  flag  with  stars.  Til  help  ye  all  I  can,  an'  good 
luck  go  with  ye.  Work  hit  out  yore  own  way.  She's 
worth  more'n  all  the  gold  Calif orny's  got  buried!" 

This  time  it  was  Will  Banion's  hand  that  was  sud 
denly  extended. 

"Take  her  secret  an'  take  her  advice  then,"  said 
Bridger  after  a  time.  "Ye  must  git  in  ahead  to  Cali- 
forny.  Fust  come  fust  served,  on  any  beaver  water. 
Per  me  'tis  easy.  I  kin  hold  my  hat  an'  the  immigrints'll 
throw  money  into  hit.  I've  got  my  fortune  here,  boy. 
I  can  easy  spare  ye  what  ye  need,  ef  ye  do  need  a  helpin' 
out'n  my  plate.  Fer  sake  o'  the  finest  gal  that  ever 
crossed  the  Plains,  that's  what  we'll  do!  Ef  I  don't, 
Jim  Bridger's  a  putrefied  liar,  so  help  me  God!" 

Banion  made  no  reply  at  once,  but  could  not  fail 
of  understanding. 

"I'll  not  need  much,"  said  he.  "My  place  is  to  go  on 
ahead  with  my  men.  I  don't  think  there'll  be  much 
danger  now  from  Indians,  from  what  I  hear.  At  Fort 
Hall  I  intend  to  split  off  for  California.  Now  I  make 
you  this  proposition,  not  in  payment  for  your  secret, 
or  for  anything  else:  If  I  find  gold  I'll  give  you  half 
of  all  I  get,  as  soon  as  I  get  out  or  as  soon  as  I  can 
send  it." 

"What  do  ye  want  o'  me,  son?" 

"Six  mules  and  packs.  All  the  shovels  and  picks 
you  have  or  can  get  for  me  at  Fort  Hall.  There's 
another  thing." 

278 


THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING! 

"An'  what  is  that?" 

"I  want  you  to  find  out  what  Kit  Carson  said  and 
what  Kit  Carson  had.  If  at  any  time  you  want  to 
reach  me — six  months,  a  year — get  word  through  by 
the  wagon  trains  next  year,  in  care  of  the  District  Court 
at  Oregon  City,  on  the  Willamette." 

"Why,  all  right,  all  right,  son!  We're  all  maybe 
talkin'  in  the  air,  but  I  more'n  half  understand  ye. 
One  thing,  ye  ain't  never  really  intendin'  to  give  up 
Molly  Wingate !  Ye're  a  fool  not  to  marry  her  now, 
but  ye're  reckonin'  to  marry  her  sometime — when  the 
moon  turns  green,  huh?  When  she's  old  an'  shriveled 
up,  then  ye'll  marry  her,  huh?" 

Banion  only  looked  at  him,  silent. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  go  on  to  Calif orny  with  ye,  son, 
ef  I  didn't  know  I'd  make  more  here,  an'  easier,  out'n 
the  crazy  fools  that'll  be  pilin'  in  here  next  year.  So 
good  luck  to  ye." 

"Kit  had  more  o'  that  stuff,"  he  suddenly  added. 
"He  give  me  some  more  when  I  told  him  I'd  lost  that 
fust  piece  he  give  me.  I'll  give  ye  a  piece  fer  sample, 
son.  I've  kej/  hit  close." 

He  begun  fumbling  in  the  tobacco  pouch  which  he 
found  under  the  head  of  his  blanket  bed.  He  looked 
up  blankly,  slightly  altering  the  name  of  his  youngest 
squaw. 

"Well,  damn  her  hide!"  said  he  fervently.  "Ye 
kain't  keep  nothin'  from  'em!  An1  they  kain't  keep 
nothin'  when  they  git  hit." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A    MATTER    OF    FRIENDSHIP 

ONCE  more  the  train,  now  permanently  divided 
into  two,  faced  the  desert,  all  the  men  and 
many  women  now  afoot,  the  kine  low-headed, 
stepping  gingerly  in  their  new  rawhide  shoes.  Gray, 
grim  work,  toiling  over  the  dust  and  sand.  But  at  the 
head  wagon,  taking  over  an  empire  foot  by  foot,  flew 
the  great  flag.  Half  fanatics?  That  may  be.  Fan 
atics,  so  called,  also  had  prayed  and  sung  and  taught 
their  children,  all  the  way  across  to  the  Great  Salt  Lake. 
They,  too,  carried  books.  And  within  one  hour  after 
their  halt  near  the  Salt  Lake  they  began  to  plow,  began 
to  build,  began  to  work,  began  to  grow  and  make  a. 
country. 

The  men  at  the  trading  post  saw  the  Missouri 
wagons  pull  out  ahead.  Two  hours  later  the  Win- 
gate  train  followed,  as  the  lot  had  determined.  Wood- 
hull  remained  with  his  friends  in  the  Wingate  group, 
regarded  now  with  an  increasing  indifference,  but  bid 
ing  his  time. 

Bridger  held  back  his  old  friend  Jackson  even  after 
the  last  train  pulled  out.  It  was  mid  afternoon  when 
the  start  was  made. 

"Don't  go  just  yet,  Bill,"  said  he.  "Ride  on  an'  over- 
280 


THE  FAMILIES  ARE  COMING! 

take  'em.  Nothin'  but  rattlers  an*  jack  rabbits  now  fer 
a  while.  The  Shoshones  won't  hurt  'em  none.  I'm 
powerful  lonesome,  somehow.  Let's  you  an'  me  have 
one  more  drink." 

"That  sounds  reas'nble,"  said  Jackson.  "Shore 
that  sounds  reas'nble  to  me." 

They  drank  of  a  keg  which  the  master  of  the  post 
had  hidden  in  his  lodge,  back  of  his  blankets;  drank 
again  of  high  wines  diluted  but  uncolored — the  "likker" 
of  the  fur  trade. 

They  drank  from  tin  cups,  until  Bridger  began  to 
chant,  a  deepening  sense  of  his  old  melancholy  on  him. 

"Good-by!"  he  said  again  and  again,  waving  his 
hand  in  general  vagueness  to  the  mountains. 

"We  was  friends,  wasn't  we,  Bill?"  he  demanded 
again  and  again;  and  Jackson,  drunk  as  he,  nodded 
in  like  maudlin  gravity.  He  himself  began  to  chant. 
The  two  were  savages  again. 

"Well,  we  got  to  part,  Bill.  This  is  Jim  Bridger's 
last  Rendyvous.  I've  rid  around  an'  said  good-by  to 
the  mountings.  Why  don't  we  do  it  the  way  the  big 
partisans  allus  done  when  the  Rendyvous  was  over? 
'Twas  old  Mike  Fink  an'  his  friend  Carpenter  begun 
hit,  fifty  year  ago.  Keel-boat  men  on  the  river,  they 
was.  There's  as  good  shots  left  to-day  as  then,  an'  as 
good  friends.  You  an'  me  has  seed  hit;  we  seed  hit 
at  the  very  last  meetin'  o'  the  Rocky  Mountain  Com 
pany  men,  before  the  families  come.  An  'nary  a  man 
spilled  the  whiskey  on  his  partner's  head." 

281 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"That's  the  truth,"  assented  Jackson.  "Though  some 
I  wouldn't  trust  now." 

"Would  ye  trust  me,  Bill,  like  I  do  you,  fer  sake 
o'  the  old  times,  when  friends  was  friends?" 

"Shore  I  would,  no  matter  how  come,  Jim.  My 
hand's  stiddy  as  a  rock,  even  though  my  shootin' 
shoulder's  a  leetle  stiff  from  that  Crow  arrer." 

Each  man  held  out  his  firing  arm,  steady  as  a  bar. 

"I  kin  still  see  the  nail  heads  on  the  door,  yan.  Kin 
ye,  Bill?" 

"Plain!  It's  a  waste  o'  likker,  Jim,  fer  we'd  both 
drill  the  cups." 

"Are  ye  a-skeered  ?" 

"I  told  ye  not." 

"Chardon!"  roared  Bridger  to  his  clerk.  "You, 
Chardon,  come  here!" 

The  clerk  obeyed,  though  he  and  others  had  been 
discreet  about  remaining  visible  as  this  bout  of  old- 
timers  at  their  cups  went  on.  Liquor  and  gunpowder 
usually  went  together. 

"Chardon,  git  ye  two  fresh  tin  cups  an*  bring  'em 
here.  Bring  a  piece  o'  charcoal  to  spot  the  cups.  We're 
goin'  to  shoot  'em  off  each  other's  heads  in  the  old  way. 
You  know  what  I  mean" 

Chardon,  trembling,  brought  the  two  tin  cups,  and 
Bridger  with  a  burnt  ember  sought  to  mark  plainly 
on  each  a  black  bull's-eye.  Silence  fell  on  the  few  ob 
servers,  for  all  the  emigrants  had  now  gone  and  the 
open  space  before  the  rude  trading  building  was  va- 

282 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

cant,  although  a  few  faces  peered  around  corners.  At 
the  door  of  the  tallest  tepee  two  native  women  sat,  a 
young  and  an  old,  their  blankets  drawn  across  their 
eyes,  accepting  fate,  and  not  daring  to  make  a  protest. 

"How !"  exclaimed  Bridger  as  he  filled  both  cups  and 
put  them  on  the  ground.  "Have  ye  wiped  yer  bar'l?" 

"Shore  I  have.    Let's  wipe  agin." 

Each  drew  his  ramrod  from  the  pipes  and  attached 
the  cleaning  worm  with  its  twist  of  tow,  kept  handy 
in  belt  pouch  in  muzzle-loading  days. 

"Clean  as  a  whistle !"  said  Jackson,  holding  out  the 
end  of  the  rod. 

"So's  mine,  pardner.  Old  Jim  Bridger  never  dis 
graced  hisself  with  a  rifle." 

"Ner  me/1  commented  Jackson.  "Hold  a  hair  full, 
Jim,  an'  cut  nigh  the  top  o'  the  tin.  That'll  be  safer 
fer  my  skelp,  an'  hit'll  let  less  whisky  out'n  the  hole. 
We  got  to  drink  what's  left.  S'pose'n  we  have  a  snort 
now?" 

"Atter  we  both  shoot  we  kin  drink,"  rejoined  his 
friend,  with  a  remaining  trace  of  judgment.  "Go  take 
stand  whar  we  marked  the  scratch.  Chardon,  damn 
ye,  carry  the  cup  down  an'  set  hit  on  his  head,  an'  ef 
ye  spill  a  drop  I'll  drill  ye,  d'ye  hear?" 

The  engage's  face  went  pale. 

"But  Monsieur  Jim  "  he  began. 

"Don't  'Monsieur  Jim'  me  or  I'll  drill  a  hole  in  ye 
anyways!  Do-ee-do  what  I  tell  ye,  boy!  Then  if  ye 

283 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

crave  fer  to  see  some  oT-time  shootin'  come  on  out, 
the  hull  o'  ye,  an'  take  a  lesson,  damn  ye !" 

"Do-ee  ye  shoot  first,  Bill,"  demanded  Bridger.  "The 
light's  soft,  an'  we'll  swap  atter  the  fust  fire,  to  git  hit 
squar  for  the  hindsight,  an'  no  shine  on  the  side  o'  the 
front  sight." 

"No,  we'll  toss  fer  fust,"  said  Jackson,  and  drew 
out  a  Spanish  dollar.  "Tails  fer  me  last!"  he  called 
as  it  fell.  "An'  I  win !  You  go  fust,  Jim." 

"Shore  I  will  ef  the  toss-up  says  so,"  rejoined  his 
friend.  "Step  off  the  fifty  yard.  What  sort  o'  iron 
ye  carryin',  Bill?" 

"Why  do  ye  ask?  Ye  know  ol'  Mike  Sheets  in  Vir 
ginia  never  bored  a  better.  I've  never  changed." 

"Ner  I  from  my  old  Hawken.  Two  good  guns,  an* 
two  good  men,  Bill,  o'  the  ol'  times — the  ol'  times! 
We  kain't  say  fairer'n  this,  can  we,  at  our  time  o'  life, 
fer  favor  o'  the  old  times,  Bill?  We  got  to  do  some- 
thin',  so's  to  kind  o'  git  rested  up." 

"No  man  kin  say  fairer,"  said  his  friend. 

They  shook  hands  solemnly  and  went  onward  with 
their  devil-may-care  test,  devised  in  a  historic  keel-boat 
man's  brain,  as  inflamed  then  by  alcohol  as  their  own 
were  now. 

Followed  by  the  terrified  clerk,  Bill  Jackson,  tall,  thin 
and  grizzled,  stoical  as  an  Indian,  and  too  drunk  to 
care  much  for  consequences,  so  only  he  proved  his  skill 
and  his  courage,  walked  steadily  down  to  the  chosen 
spot  and  stood,  his  arms  folded,  after  leaning  his  own 

284 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

rifle  against  the  door  of  the  trading  room.  He  faced 
Bridger  without  a  tremor,  his  head  bare,  and  cursed 
Char  don  for  a  coward  when  his  hand  trembled  as  he 
balanced  the  cup  on  Jackson's  head. 

"Damn  ye,  "  he  exclaimed,  "there'll  be  plenty  lost 
without  any  o'  your  spillin' !" 

"Air  ye  all  ready,  Bill  ?"  called  Bridger  from  his  sta 
tion,  his  rifle  cocked  and  the  delicate  triggers  set,  so 
perfect  in  their  mechanism  that  the  lightest  touch 
against  the  trigger  edge  would  loose  the  hammer. 

"All  ready !"  answered  Jackson. 

The  two,  jealous  still  of  the  ancient  art  of  the  rifle, 
which  nowhere  in  the  world  obtained  nicer  develop 
ment  than  among  men  such  as  these,  faced  each  other 
in  what  always  was  considered  the  supreme  test  of 
nerve  and  skill;  for  naturally  a  man's  hand  might 
tremble,  sighting  three  inches  above  his  friend's  eyes, 
when  it  would  not  move  a  hair  sighting  center  between 
the  eyes  of  an  enemy. 

Bridger  spat  out  his  tobacco  chew  and  steadily  raised 
his  rifle.  The  man  opposite  him  stood  steady  as  a  pillar, 
and  did  not  close  his  eyes.  The  silence  that  fell  on 
those  who  saw  became  so  intense  that  it  seemed  verit 
ably  to  radiate,  reaching  out  over  the  valley  to  the 
mountains  as  in  a  hush  of  leagues. 

For  an  instant,  which  to  the  few  observers  seemed 
an  hour,  these  two  figures,  from  which  motion  seemed 
to  have  passed  forever,  stood  frozen.  Then  there  came 

285 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

a  spurt  of  whitish-blue  smoke  and  the  thin  dry  crack 
of  the  border  rifle. 

The  hand  and  eye  of  Jim  Bridger,  in  spite  of  ad 
vancing  years,  remained  true  to  their  long  training. 
At  the  rifle  crack  the  tin  cup  on  the  head  of  the  statue- 
like  figure  opposite  him  was  flung  behind  as  though  by 
the  blow  of  an  invisible  hand.  The  spin  of  the  bullet, 
acting  on  the  liquid  contents,  ripped  apart  the  seams 
of  the  cup  and  flung  the  fluid  wide.  Then  and  not  till 
then  did  Jackson  move. 

He  picked  up  the  empty  cup,  bored  center  directly 
through  the  black  spot,  and  turning  walked  with  it 
in  his  hand  toward  Bridger,  who  was  wiping  out  his 
rifle  once  more. 

"I  call  hit  mighty  careless  shootin',"  said  he,  irri 
tated.  "Now  lookee  what  ye  done  to  the  likker!  Ef 
ye'd  held  a  leetle  higher,  above  the  level  o*  the  likker, 
like  I  told  ye,  she  wouldn't  o'  busted  open  thataway  now. 
It's  nacherl,  thar  warn't  room  in  the  cup  fer  both  the 
likker  an'  the  ball.  That's  wastin'  likker,  Jim,  an'  my 
mother  told  me  when  I  was  a  boy,  'Willful  waste 
makes  woeful  want!' '' 

"I  call  hit  a  plum-center  shot,"  grumbled  Bridger. 
"Do-ee  look  now !  Maybe  ye  think  ye  kin  do  better 
shoot'in  yerself  than  old  Jim  Bridger!" 

"Shore  I  kin,  an'  I'll  show  ye!  I'll  bet  my  rifle 
aginst  yourn — ef  I  wanted  so  sorry  a  piece  as  yourn — 
I  kin  shoot  that  clost  to  the  mark  an'  not  spill 
no  likker  a-tall!  An'  ye  can  fill  her  two-thirds  full 

286 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIEND  SHII» 

an*  put  yer  thumb  in  fer  the  balance  ef  ye  like." 

"I'll  just  bet  ye  a  new  mule  agin  yer  pony  ye  kain't 
do  nothin'  o'  the  sort!"  retorted  Bridger. 

"All  right,  I'll  show  ye.  O'  course,  ye  got  to  hold 
still." 

"Who  said  I  wouldn't  hold  still?0 

"Nobody.     Now  you  watch  me." 

He  stooped  at  the  little  water  ditch  which  had  been 
led  in  among  the  buildings  from  the  stream  and 
kneaded  up  a  little  ball  of  mud.  This  he  forced  into 
the  handle  of  the  tin  cup,  entirely  filling  it,  then  washed 
off  the  body  of  the  cup. 

"I'll  shoot  the  fillin'  out'n  the  handle  an*  not  out' n 
the  cup !"  said  he.  "Mud's  cheap,  an*  all  the  diff'runce 
in  holdin'  is,  ef  I  nicked  the  side  o'  yer  haid  it'd  hurt 
ye  'bout  the  same  as  ef  what  I  nicked  the  center  o'  hit. 
Ain't  that  so?  We'd  orto  practice  inderstry  an' 
'conomy,  Jim.  Like  my  mother  said,  'Penny  saved 
is  er  penny  yearned/  'Little  drops  o'  water,  little 
gains  o'  sand,'  says  she,  'a-makes  the  mighty  o-o-ocean, 
an  the  plea-ea-sant  land.'  " 

"I  never  seed  it  tried/'  said  Bridger,  with  interest, 
"but  I  don't  see  why  hit  hain't  practical.  Whang 
away,  an  ef  ye  spill  the  whisky  shootin'  to  one  side, 
or  cut  har  shootin'  too  low,  your  caballo  is  mine — an' 
he  hain't  much!" 

With  no  more  argument,  he  in  turn  took  up  his 
place,  the  two  changing  positions  so  that  the  light 
would  favor  the  rifleman.  Again  the  fear-smitten 

287 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Chardon  adjusted  the  filled  cup,  this  time  on  his  mas 
ter's  bared  head. 

"Do-ee  turn  her  sideways  now,  boy,"  cautioned 
Bridger.  "Set  the  han'le  sideways  squar',  so  she  looks 
wide.  Give  him  a  fa'r  shot  now,  fer  I'm  interested  in 
this  yere  thing,  either  way  she  goes.  Either  I  lose  ha'r; 
er  a  mule." 

But  folding  his  arms  he  faced  the  rifle  without  bat 
ting  an  eye,  as  steady  as  had  been  the  other  in  his  turn. 

Jackson  extended  his  long  left  arm,  slowly  and 
steadily  raising  the  silver  bead  up  from  the  chest,  the 
throat,  the  chin,  the  forehead  of  his  friend,  then  low 
ered  it,  rubbing  his  sore  shoulder. 

"Tell  him  to  turn  that  han'le  squar'  to  me,  Jim!" 
he  called.  "The  damn  fool  has  got  her  all  squegeed 
eroun'  to  one  side." 

Bridger  reached  up  a  hand  and  straightened  the  cup 
himself. 

"How's  that?"  he  asked. 

"All  right!    Now  hold  stiddy  a  minute." 

Again  the  Indian  women  covered  their  faces,  sitting 
motionless.  And  at  last  came  again  the  puff  of  smoke, 
the  faint  crack  of  the  rifle,  never  loud  in  the  high, 
rarefied  air. 

The  straight  figure  of  the  scout  never  wavered.  The 
cup  still  rested  on  his  head.  The  rifleman  calmly  blew 
the  smoke  from  his  barrel,  his  eye  on  Bridger  as  the 
latter  now  raised  a  careful  hand  to  his  head.  Chardon 
hastened  to  aid,  with  many  ejaculations. 

288 


A  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

The  cup  still  was  full,  but  the  mud  was  gone  from 
inside  the  handle  as  though  poked  out  with  a  finger ! 

"That's  what  I  call  shootin',  Jim,"  said  Jackson,  "an' 
reas'nable  shootin'  too.  Now  spill  half  o'  her  where 
she'll  do  some  good,  an'  give  me  the  rest.  I  got  to 
be  goin'  now.  I  don't  want  yer  mule.  I  fust  come 
away  from  Missouri  to  git  shet  o'  mules." 

Chardon,  cupbearer,  stood  regarding  the  two  wild 
souls  whom  he  never  in  his  own  more  timid  nature 
was  to  understand.  The  two  mountain  men  shook 
hands.  The  alcohol  had  no  more  than  steadied  them 
in  their  rifle  work,  but  the  old  exultation  of  their  wild 
life  came  to  them  now  once  more.  Bridger  clapped 
hand  to  mouth  and  uttered  his  old  war  cry  before  he 
drained  his  share  of  the  fiery  fluid. 

"To  the  ol'  days,  friend!"  said  he  once  more;  "the 
days  that's  gone,  when  men  was  men,  an'  a  friend  could 
trust  a  friend !" 

"To  the  ol'  days !"  said  Jackson  in  turn.  "An'  I'll 
bet  two  better  shots  don't  stand  to-day  on  the  soil  o' 
Oregon !  But  I  got  to  be  goin',  Jim.  I'm  goin'  on  to 
the  Columby.  I  may  not  see  ye  soon.  It's  far." 

He  swung  into  his  saddle,  the  rifle  in  its  loop  at 
the  horn.  But  Bridger  came  to  him,  a  hand  on  his 
knee. 

"I  hate  to  see  ye  go,  Bill." 

"Shore !"  said  Jackson.  "I  hate  to  go.  Take  keer 
yerself,  Jim." 

The  two  Indian  women  had  uncovered  their  faces 
289 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

and  gone  inside  the  lodge.  But  old  Jim  Bridget  sat 
down,  back  against  a  cottonwood,  and  watched  the  lop 
ping  figure  of  his  friend  jog  slowly  out  into  the  desert. 
He  himself  was  singing  now,  chanting  monotonously 
an  old  Indian  refrain  that  lingered  in  his  soul  from  the 
days  of  the  last  Rendezvous. 

At  length  he  arose,  and  animated  by  a  sudden 
thought  sought  out  his  tepee  once  more.  Dang  Yore 
Eyes  greeted  him  with  shy  smiles  of  pride. 

"Heap  shoot,  Jeem!"  said  she.  "No  kill-urn. 
Why?" 

She  was  decked  now  in  her  finest,  ready  to  use  all 
her  blandishments  on  her  lord  and  master.  Her  cheeks 
were  painted  red,  her  wrists  were  heavy  with  copper. 
On  a  thong  at  her  neck  hung  a  piece  of  yellow  stone 
which  she  had  bored  through  with  an  awl,  or  rather 
with  three  or  four  awls,  after  much  labor,  that  very 
day. 

Bridger  picked  up  the  ornament  betwen  thumb  and 
finger.  He  said  no  word,  but  his  fingers  spoke. 

"Other  pieces.    Where  ?" 

"White  man.  Gone — out  there."  She  answered  in 
the  same  fashion. 

"How,  cola!"  she  spoke  aloud.  "Him  say,  'How, 
cola,'  me."  She  smiled  with  much  pride  over  her 
conquest,  and  showed  two  silver  dollars.  "Swap !" 

In  silence  Bridger  went  into  the  tepee  and  pulled 
the  door  flaps. 


290 


M 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

GEE WHOA HAW  ! 

Am  mr  IDSUMMER  in  the  desert.  The  road  now, 
but  for  the  shifting  of  the  sands,  would  have 
been  marked  by  the  bodies  of  dead  cattle,  in 
death  scarcely  more  bone  and  parchment  than  for  days 
they  had  been  while  alive.  The  horned  toad,  the  cac 
tus,  the  rattlesnake  long  since  had  replaced  the  prairie 
vlogs  of  the  grassy  floor  of  the  eastern  Plains.  A 
scourge  of  great  black  crickets  appeared,  crackling 
loathsomely  under  the  wheels.  Sagebrush  and  sand  took 
the  place  of  trees  and  grass  as  they  left  the  river  valley 
and  crossed  a  succession  of  ridges  or  plateaus.  At  last 
they  reached  vast  black  basaltic  masses  and  lava  fields, 
proof  of  former  subterranean  fires  which  seemingly 
had  forever  dried  out  the  life  of  the  earth's  surface. 
The  very  vastness  of  the  views  might  have  had  charm 
but  for  the  tempering  feeling  of  awe,  of  doubt,  of  fear. 
They  had  followed  the  trail  over  the  immemorial 
tribal  crossings  over  heights  of  land  lying  between  the 
heads  of  streams.  Frorr  the  Green  River,  which  finds 
the  great  canons  of  the  Colorado,  they  came  into  the 
vast  horseshoe  valley  o^  the  Bear,  almost  circumventing 
the  Great  Salt  Lake,  but  unable  to  forsake  it  at  last. 

291 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

West  and  south  now  rose  bold  mountains  around  whose 
northern  extremity  the  river  had  felt  its  way,  and  back 
of  these  lay  fold  on  fold  of  lofty  ridges,  now  softened 
by  the  distances.  Of  all  the  splendid  landscapes  of  the 
Oregon  Trail,  this  one  had  few  rivals.  But  they  must 
leave  this  and  cross  to  yet  another  though  less  inviting 
vast  river  valley  of  the  series  which  led  them  across  the 
continent. 

Out  of  the  many  wagons  which  Jesse  Wingate  orig 
inally  had  captained,  now  not  one  hundred  remained 
in  his  detachment  when  it  took  the  sagebrush  plateaus 
below  the  great  Snake  River.  They  still  were  back  of 
the  Missouri  train,  no  doubt  several  days,  but  no  mes 
sage  left  on  a  cleft  stick  at  camp  cheered  them  or  en 
lightened  them.  And  now  still  another  defection  had 
cut  down  the  train. 

Woodhull,  moody  and  irascible,  feverish  and  excited 
by  turns,  ever  since  leaving  Bridger  had  held  secret 
conclaves  with  a  few  of  his  adherents,  the  nature  of 
which  he  did  not  disclose.  There  was  no  great  sur 
prise  and  no  extreme  regret  when,  within  safe  reach 
of  Fort  Hall,  he  had  announced  his  intention  of  going 
on  ahead  with  a  dozen  wagons.  He  went  without  ob 
taining  any  private  interview  with  Molly  Wingate. 

These  matters  none  the  less  had  their  depressing 

effect.     Few  illusions  remaii.ed  to  any  of  them  now, 

and  no  romance.    Yet  they  went  on — ten  miles,  fifteen 

cmetimes,  though  rarely  twenty  miles  a  day.    Women 

fell  asleep,  babes  in  arms,  jostling  on  the  wagon  seats; 

292 


GEE-WHO  A-H  AW ! 

men  almost  slept  as  they  walked,  ox  whip  in  hand ;  the 
cattle  slept  as  they  stumbled  on,  tongues  dry  and  lolling. 
All  the  earth  seemed  strange,  unreal.  They  advanced 
as  though  in  a  dream  through  some  inferno  of  a 
crazed  imagination. 

About  them  now  often  rose  the  wavering  images  of 
the  mirage,  offering  water,  trees,  wide  landscapes ;  beck 
oning  in  such  desert  deceits  as  they  often  now  had 
seen.  One  day  as  the  brazen  sun  mocked  them  from 
its  zenith  they  saw  that  they  were  not  alone  on  the 
trail. 

"Look,  mother!"  exclaimed  Molly  Wingate — she 
now  rode  with  her  mother  on  the  seat  of  the  family 
wagon,  Jed  driving  her  cart  when  not  on  the  cow  col 
umn.  "See!  There's  a  caravan !" 

Her  cry  was  echoed  or  anticipated  by  scores  of  voices 
of  others  who  had  seen  the  same  thing.  They  pointed 
west  and  south. 

Surely  there  was  a  caravan — a  phantom  caravan! 
Far  off,  gigantic,  looming  and  lowering  again,  it  paral 
leled  the  advance  of  their  own  train,  which  in  numbers 
it  seemed  to  equal.  Slowly,  steadily,  irresistibly,  awe 
somely,  it  kept  pace  with  them,  sending  no  sign  to  them, 
mockingly  indifferent  to  them — mockingly  so,  indeed; 
for  when  the  leaders  of  the  Wingate  wagons  [  nsed 
the  riders  of  the  ghostly  train  paused  also,  biding 
their  time  with  no  action  to  indicate  their  intent.  When 
the  advance  was  resumed  the  uncanny  pari  passu  again 
went  on,  the  rival  caravan  going  forward  as  fast,  no 

293 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

faster  than  those  who  regarded  it  in  a  fascinated  inter 
est  that  began  to  become  fear.  Yonder  caravan  could 
bode  no  good.  Without  doubt  it  planned  an  ambush 
farther  on,  and  this  sinister  indifference  meant  only 
its  certainty  of  success. 

Or  were  there,  then,  other  races  of  men  out  here  in 
this  unknown  world  of  heat  and  sand?  Was  this  a 
treasure  train  of  old  Spanish  cargadoresf  Did  ghosts 
live  and  move  as  men?  If  not,  what  caravan  was  this, 
moving  alone,  far  from  the  beaten  trail?  What  pur 
pose  had  it  here  ? 

"Look,  mother!" 

The  girl's  voice  rose  eagerly  again,  but  this  time  with 
a  laugh  in  it.  And  her  assurance  passed  down  the  line, 
others  laughing  in  relief  at  the  solution. 

"It's  ourselves !"  said  Molly.  "It's  the  Fata  Morgana 
— but  how  marvelous !  Who  could  believe  it  ?" 

Indeed,  the  mirage  had  taken  that  rare  and  extraor 
dinary  form.  The  mirage  of  their  own  caravan,  rising, 
was  reflected,  mirrored,  by  some  freak  of  the  desert 
sun  and  air,  upon  the  fine  sand  blown  in  the  air  at  a 
distance  from  the  train.  It  was,  indeed,  themselves 
they  saw,  not  knowing  it,  in  a  vast  primordial  mirror 
i«f  the  desert  gods.  Nor  did  the  discovery  of  the  truth 
lessen  the  feeling  of  discomfort,  of  apprehension.  The 
laughter  was  at  best  uneasy  until  at  last  a  turn  in  the 
trail,  a  shift  in  the  wizardry  of  the  heat  waves,  broke 
up  the  ghostly  caravan  and  sent  it,  figure  by  figure, 

294 


GEE-WHO  A-H  AW ! 

vehicle  by  vehicle,  into  the  unknown  whence  it  had 
come. 

"This  country !"  exclaimed  Molly  Wingate's  mother. 
"It  scares  me!  If  Oregon's  like  this " 

"It  isn't,  mother.  It  is  rich  and  green,  with  rains. 
There  are  great  trees,  many  mountains,  beautiful  rivers 
where  we  are  going,  and  there  are  fields  of  grain.  There 
are — why,  there  are  homes !" 

The  sudden  pathos  of  her  voice  drew  her  mother's 
frowning  gaze. 

"There,  there,  child!"  said  she.  "Dcn't  you  mind. 
We'll  always  have  a  home  for  you,  your  paw  and  me." 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"I  sometimes  think  I'd  better  teach  school  and  live 
alone." 

"And  leave  your  parents  ?" 

"How  can  I  look  my  father  in  the  face  every  day, 
knowing  what  he  feels  about  me  ?  Just  now  he  accuses 
me  of  ruining  Sam  Woodhull's  life — driving  him  away, 
out  of  the  train.  But  what  could  I  do?  Marry  him, 
after  all?  I  can't — I  can't!  I'm  glad  he's  gone,  but 
I  don't  know  why  he  went." 

"In  my  belief  you  haven't  heard  or  seen  the  last 
of  Sam  Woodhull  yet,"  mused  her  mother.  "Some 
times  a  man  gets  sort  of  peeved — wants  to  marry  a 
girl  that  jilts  him  more'n  if  she  hadn't.  And  you  cer 
tainly  jilted  him  at  the  church  door,  if  there'd  been 
any  church  there.  It  was  an  awful  thing,  Molly.  I 
don't  know  as  I  see  how  Sam  stood  it  long  as  he  did." 

295 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

'Haven't  I  paid  for  it,  mother?" 

"Why,  yes,  one  way  of  speaking.  But  that  ain't  the 
way  men  are  going  to  call  theirselves  paid.  Until  he's 
married,  a  man's  powerful  set  on  having  a  woman.  If 
he  don't,  he  thinks  he  ain't  paid,  it  don't  scarcely  make 
no  difference  what  the  woman  does.  No,  I  don't  reckon 
he'll  forget.  About  Will  Banion " 

"Don't  let's  mention  him,  mother.  I'm  trying  to 
forget  him." 

"Yes?  Where  do  you  reckon  he  is  now — how  far 
ahead?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  can't  guess." 

The  color  on  her  cheek  caught  her  mother's  gaze. 

"Gee-whoa-haw !  Git  along  Buck  and  Star!"  com 
manded  the  buxom  dame  to  the  swaying  ox  team  that 
now  followed  the  road  with  no  real  need  of  guidance. 
They  took  up  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  desert. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

TWO    LOVE    LETTERS 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

What  did  they  need,  here  at  Fort  Hall,  on  the  Snake, 
third  and  last  settlement  of  the  two  thousand  miles  of 
toil  and  danger  and  exhaustion  ?  They  needed  every 
thing.  But  one  question  first  was  asked  by  these  travel- 
sick  home-loving  people :  What  was  the  news  ? 

Isiews?  How  could  there  be  news  when  almost  a 
year  would  elapse  before  Fort  Hall  would  know  that 
on  that  very  day — in  that  very  month  of  August,  1848 
— Oregon  was  declared  a  territory  of  the  Union  ? 

News?  How  could  there  be  news,  when  these  men 
could  not  know  for  much  more  than  a  year  that,  as 
they  outspanned  here  in  the  sage,  Abraham  Lincoln 
had  just  declined  the  governorship  of  the  new  territory 
of  Oregon?  Why?  He  did  not  know.  Why  had 
these  men  come  here  ?  They  did  not  know. 

But  news — the  news!  The  families  must  have  the 
news.  And  here — always  there  was  news!  Just  be 
yond  branched  off  the  trail  to  California.  Here  the 
supply  trains  from  the  Columbia  brought  news  from 
the  Oregon  settlements.  News?  How  slow  it  was, 
when  it  took  a  letter  more  than  two  years  to  go  one 
way  from  edge  to  edge  of  the  American  continent! 

They  told  what  news  they  knew — the  news  of  the 
Mormons  of  1847  and  1848;  the  latest  mutterings  over 
fugitive  negro  slaves;  the  growing  feeling  that  the 
South  would  one  day  follow  the  teachings  of  secession. 
They  heard  in  payment  the  full  news  of  the  Whitman 
massacre  in  Oregon  that  winter;  they  gave  back  in 
turn  their  own  news  of  the  battles  with  the  Sioux 

298 


TWO  LOVE  LETTERS 

and  the  Crows;  the  news  of  the  new  Army  posts  then 
moving  west  into  the  Plains  to  clear  them  for  the 
whites.  News?  Why,  yes,  large  news  enough,  and 
on  either  hand,  so  the  trade  was  fair. 

But  these  matters  of  the  outside  world  were  not  the 
only  ones  of  interest,  whether  to  the  post  traders  or 
the  newly  arrived  emigrants.  Had  others  preceded 
them  ?  How  many  ?  When  ?  Why,  yes,  a  week  earlier 
fifty  wagons  of  one  train,  Missouri  men,  led  by  a  man 
on  a  great  black  horse  and  an  old  man,  a  hunter. 
Banion?  Yes,  that  was  the  name,  and  the  scout  was 
Jackson — Bill  Jackson,  an  old-time  free  trapper.  Well, 
these  two  had  split  off  for  California,  with  six  good 
pack  mules,  loaded  light.  The  rest  of  the  wagons  had 
gone  on  to  the  Snake.  But  why  these  two  had  bought 
the  last  shovels  and  the  only  pick  in  all  the  supplies 
at  old  Fort  Hall  no  man  could  tell.  Crazy,  of  course; 
for  who  could  pause  to  work  on  the  trail  with  pick  or 
shovel,  with  winter  coming  on  at  the  Sierra  crossing  ? 

But  not  crazier  than  the  other  band  who  had  come 
in  three  days  ago,  also  ahead  of  the  main  train.  Wood- 
hull?  Yes,  that  was  the  name — Woodhull.  He  had 
twelve  or  fifteen  wagons  with  him,  and  had  bought 
supplies  for  California,  though  they  all  had  started 
for  Oregon.  Well,  they  soon  would  know  more  about 
the  Mary's  River  and  the  Humboldt  Desert.  Plenty  of 
bones,  there,  sure ! 

But  even  so,  a  third  of  the  trains,  these  past  five 
years,  had  split  off  at  the  Raft  River  and  given  up 

299 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

hope  of  Oregon.  California  was  much  better — easier 
to  reach  and  better  when  you  got  there.  The  road 
to  Oregon  was  horrible.  The  crossings  of  the  Snake, 
especially  the  first  crossing,  to  the  north  bank,  was  a 
gamble  with  death  for  the  whole  train.  And  beyond 
that,  to  the  Blue  Mountains,  the  trail  was  no  trail  at 
all.  Few  ever  would  get  through,  no  one  knew  how 
many  had  perished.  Three  years  ago  Joe  Meek  had 
tried  to  find  a  better  trail  west  of  the  Blues.  All  lost, 
so  the  story  said.  Why  go  to  Oregon  ?  Nothing  there 
when  you  got  there.  California,  now,  had  been  settled 
and  proved  a  hundred  years  and  more.  Every  year 
men  came  this  far  east  to  wait  at  Fort  Hall  for  the 
emigrant  trains  and  to  persuade  them  to  go  to  Cali 
fornia,  not  to  Oregon. 

But  what  seemed  strange  to  the  men  at  the  trading 
post  was  the  fact  that  Banion  had  not  stopped  or  asked 
a  question.  He  appeared  to  have  made  up  his  mind 
long  earlier,  and  beyond  asking  for  shovels  he  had 
wanted  nothing.  The  same  way  with  Woodhull.  He 
had  come  in  fast  and  gone  out  fast,  headed  for  the  Raft 
River  trail  to  California,  the  very  next  morning.  Why  ? 
Usually  men  stopped  here  at  Fort  Hall,  rested,  traded, 
got  new  stock,  wanted  to  know  about  the  trail  ahead. 
Both  Banion  and  Woodhull  struck  Fort  Hall  with  their 
minds  already  made  up.  They  did  not  talk.  Was 
there  any  new  word  about  the  California  trail,  down 
at  Bridger?  Had  a  new  route  over  the  Humboldt 
Basin  been  found,  or  something  of  that  sort?  How 


TWO  LOVE  LETTERS 

could  that  be?    If  so,  it  must  be  rough  and  needing 
work  in  places,  else  why  the  need  for  so  many  shovels  ? 

But  maybe  the  emigrants  themselves  knew  about 
these  singular  matters,  or  would  when  they  had  read 
their  letters.  Yes,  of  course,  the  Missouri  movers  had 
left  a  lot  of  letters,  some  for  their  folks  back  East  next 
year  maybe,  but  some  for  people  in  the  train.  Banion, 
Woodhull — had  they  left  any  word  ?  Why,  yes,  both  of 
them.  The  trader  smiled.  One  each.  To  the  same 
person,  yes.  Well,  lucky  girl!  But  that  black  horse 
now — the  Nez  Perces  would  give  a  hundred  ponies  for 
him.  But  he  wouldn't  trade.  A  sour  young  man.  But 
.Woodhull,  now,  the  one  with  the  wagons,  talked  more. 
And  they  each  had  left  a  letter  for  the  same  girl !  And 
this  was  Miss  Molly  Wingate?  Well,  the  trader  did 
not  blame  them !  These  American  girls !  They  were 
like  roses  to  the  old  traders,  cast  away  this  lifetime  out 
here  in  the  desert. 

News?  Why,  yes,  no  train  ever  came  through  that 
did  not  bring  news  and  get  news  at  old  Fort  Hall — 
and  so  on. 

The  inclosure  of  the  old  adobe  fur-trading  post  was 
thronged  by  the  men  and  women  of  the  Wingate  train. 
Molly  Wingate  at  first  was  not  among  them.  She  sat, 
chin  on  her  hand,  on  a  wagon  tongue  in  the  encamp 
ment,  looking  out  over  the  blue-gray  desert  to  the  red- 
and-gold  glory  of  the  sinking  sun.  Her  mother  came 
to  her  and  placed  in  her  lap  the  two  letters,  stood  watch 
ing  her. 

301 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"One  from  each,"  said  she  sententiously,  and  turned 
away. 

The  girl's  face  paled  as  she  opened  the  one  she  had 
felt  sure  would  find  her  again,  somewhere,  somehow. 
It  said : 

DEAREST  :  I  write  to  Molly  Wingate,  because  and 
only  because  I  know  she  still  is  Molly  Wingate.  It 
might  be  kinder  to  us  both  if  I  did  not  write  at  all  but 
went  my  way  and  left  it  all  to  time  and  silence.  I  found 
I  could  not. 

There  will  be  no  other  woman,  in  all  my  life,  for  me. 
I  cannot  lay  any  vow  on  you.  If  I  could,  if  I  dared, 
I  would  say :  "Wait  for  a  year,  while  I  pray  for  a  year 
— and  God  help  us  both." 

As  you  know,  I  now  have  taken  your  advice.  Bridger 
and  I  are  joined  for  the  California  adventure.  If  the 
gold  is  there,  as  Carson  thinks,  I  may  find  more  fortune 
than  I  have  earned.  More  than  I  could  earn  you  gave 
me — when  I  was  young.  That  was  two  months  ago. 
Now  I  am  old. 

Keep  the  news  of  the  gold,  if  it  can  be  kept,  as  long 
as  you  can.  No  doubt  it  will  spread  from  other  sources, 
but  so  far  as  I  know- — and  thanks  only  to  you — I  am 
well  ahead  of  any  other  adventurer  from  the  East  this 
season,  and,  as  you  know,  winter  soon  will  seal  the 
trails  against  followers.  Next  year,  1849,  will  be  the 
big  rush,  if  it  all  does  not  flatten. 

I  can  think  of  no  one  who  can  have  shared  our  secret. 
Carson  will  be  East  by  now,  but  he  is  a  government 
man,  and  close  of  mouth  with  strangers.  Bridger,  I 
am  sure — for  the  odd  reason  that  he  worships  you — 

302 


TWO  LOVE  LETTERS 

will  tell  no  one  else,  especially  since  he  shares  profits 
with  me,  if  I  survive  and  succeed.  One  doubt  only 
rests  in  my  mind.  At  his  post  I  talked  with  Bridger, 
and  he  told  me  he  had  a  few  other  bits  of  gold  that 
Carson  had  given  him  at  Laramie.  He  looked  for  them 
but  had  lost  them.  He  suspected  his  Indian  women, 
but  he  knew  nothing.  Of  course,  it  would  be  one 
chance  in  a  thousand  that  any  one  would  know  the 
women  had  these  things,  and  even  so  no  one  could  tell 
where  the  gold  came  from,  because  not  even  the  women 
would  know  that;  not  even  Bridger  does,  exactly;  not 
even  I  myself. 

In  general  I  am  headed  for  the  valley  of  the  Sacra 
mento.  I  shall  work  north.  Why  ?  Because  that  will 
be  toward  Oregon ! 

I  write  as  though  I  expected  to  see  you  again,  as 
though  I  had  a  right  to  expect  or  hope  for  that.  It  is 
only  the  dead  young  man,  Will  Banion,  who  unjustly 
and  wrongly  craves  and  calls  out  for  the  greatest  of  all 
fortune  for  a  man — who  unfairly  and  wrongly  writes 
you  now,  when  he  ought  to  remember  your  word,  to 
go  to  a  land  far  from  you,  to  forget  you  and  to  live 
down  his  past.  Ah,  if  I  could!  Ah,  if  I  did  not  love 
you! 

But  being  perhaps  about  to  die,  away  from  you,  the 
truth  only  must  be  between  you  and  me.  And  the  truth 
is  I  never  shall  forget  you.  The  truth  is  I  love  you 
more  than  anything  else  and  everything  else  in  all  the 
world. 

If  I  were  in  other  ways  what  the  man  of  your  choice 
should  be,  would  this  truth  have  any  weight  with  you? 
I  do  not  know  and  I  dare  not  ask.  Reason  does  tell  me 
how  selfish  it  would  be  to  ask  you  to  hold  in  your  heart 

303 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

a  memory  and  not  a  man.  That  is  for  me  to  do — to 
have  a  memory,  and  not  you.  But  my  memory  never 
can  content  me. 

It  seems  as  though  time  had  been  invented  so  that, 
through  all  its  aeons,  our  feet  might  run  in  search,  one 
for  the  other — to  meet,  where  ?  Well,  we  did  meet — for 
one  instant  in  the  uncounted  ages,  there  on  the  prairie. 
Well,  if  ever  you  do  see  me  again  you  shall  say  whether 
I  have  been,  indeed,  tried  by  fire,  and  whether  it  has  left 
me  clean — whether  I  am  a  man  and  not  a  memory. 

That  I  perhaps  have  been  a  thief,  stealing  what  never 
could  be  mine,  is  my  great  agony  now.  But  I  love  you. 
Good-by.  WILLIAM  HAYS  BANION. 

To  MARGARET  WINGATE, 

For t  Hall,  in  Oregon. 

For  an  hour  Molly  sat,  and  the  sun  sank.  The  light 
of  the  whole  world  died. 

The  other  letter  rested  unopened  until  later,  when  she 
broke  the  seal  and  read  by  the  light  of  a  sagebrush  fire, 
she  frowned.  Could  it  be  that  in  the  providence  of 
God  she  once  had  been  within  one  deliberate  step  of 
marrying  Samuel  Payson  Woodhull? 

MY  DARLING  MOLLY  :  This  I  hope  finds  you  well 
after  the  hard  journey  from  Bridger  to  Hall. 

They  call  it  Cruel  to  keep  a  Secret  from  a  Woman. 
If  so,  I  have  been  Cruel,  though  only  in  Poor  pay  for 
your  Cruelty  to  me.  I  have  had  a  Secret — and  this  is 
it :  I  have  left  for  California  from  this  Point  and  shall 
not  go  to  Oregon.  I  have  learned  of  Gold  in  the  State 


TWO  LOVE  LETTERS 

of  California,  and  have  departed  to  that  State  in  the 
hope  of  early  Success  in  Achieving  a  Fortune.  So  far 
as  I  know,  I  am  the  First  to  have  this  news  of  Gold, 
unless  a  certain  man  whose  name  and  thought  I 
execrate  has  by  his  Usual  dishonesty  fallen  on  the  same 
information.  If  so,  we  two  may  meet  where  none  can 
Interfear. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  may  be  in  California,  but 
be  Sure  I  go  for  but  the  one  purpose  of  amassing  a 
Fortune  for  the  Woman  I  love.  I  never  have  given  you 
Up  and  never  shall.  Your  promise  is  mine  and  our  En 
gagement  never  has  been  Broken,  and  the  Mere  fact 
that  accident  for  the  time  Prevented  our  Nuptials  by 
no  means  shall  ever  mean  that  we  shall  not  find  Happy 
Consumation  of  our  most  Cherished  Desire  at  some 
later  Time. 

I  confidently  Hope  to  arrive  in  Oregon  a  rich  man 
not  later  than  one  or  two  years  from  Now.  Wait  for 
me.  I  am  mad  without  you  and  shall  count  the  Minutes 
until  then  when  I  can  take  you  in  my  Arms  and  Kiss 
you  a  thousand  Times.  Forgive  me ;  I  have  not  Hereto 
fore  told  you  of  these  Plans,  but  it  was  best  not  and 
it  was  for  You.  Indeed  you  are  so  much  in  my 
Thought,  my  Darling,  that  each  and  Everything  I  do 
is  for  You  and  You  only. 

No  more  at  present  then,  but  should  Opportunity 
offer  I  shall  get  word  to  you  addressed  to  Oregon  City 
which  your  father  said  was  his  general  Desstination,  it 
being  my  own  present  purpose  Ultimately  to  engage  in 
the  Practise  of  law  either  at  that  Point  or  the  settlement 
of  Portland  which  I  understand  is  not  far  Below.  With 
my  Means,  we  should  soon  be  Handsomely  Settled. 

305 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

May  God  guard  you  on  the  Way  Thither  and  believe 
me,  Darling,  with  more  Love  than  I  shall  be  ever  able 
to  Tell  and  a  Thousand  Kisses. 

Your  Affianced  and  Impatient  Lover, 

SAM'L.   PAYSON   WOODHULL. 

The  little  sagebrush  fire  flared  up  brightly  for  an 
instant  as  Molly  Wingate  dropped  one  of  her  letters 
on  the  embers. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

JIM    BRIDGER    FORGETS 

"\  "Y  7  HAT'S  wrong  with  the  people,  Cale?"  de- 

X/V/     manded    Jesse    Wingate    of    his    stout- 

*     "        hearted  associate,  Caleb  Price.     The  sun 

was  two  hours  high,  but  not  all  the  breakfast  fires  were 

going.     Men  were  moody,  truculent,  taciturn,  as  they 

went  about  their  duties. 

Caleb  Price  bit  into  his  yellow  beard  as  he  gazed 
down  the  irregular  lines  of  the  encampment. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Jesse?" 

"Why,  yes!" 

"Well,  then,  it  seems  to  me  the  truth  is  that  this 
train  has  lost  focus." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  right — don't  know  I  can 
make  my  guess  plain.  Of  course,  every  day  we  lay  up, 
the  whole  train  goes  to  pieces.  The  thing  to  do  is  to 
go  a  little  way  each  day — get  into  the  habit.  You  can't 
wear  out  a  road  as  long  as  this  one  by  spurts — it's 
steady  does  it. 

"But  I  don't  think  that's  all.  The  main  trouble  is 
one  that  I  don't  like  to  hint  to  you,  especially  since  none 
of  us  can  help  it." 

307 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Out  with  it,  Cale!" 

"The  trouble  is,  the  people  don't  think  they've  got  a 
leader." 

Jesse  Wingate  colored  above  his  beard. 

"That's  pretty  hard,"  said  he. 

"I  know  it's  hard,  but  I  guess  it's  the  truth.  You  and 
I  and  Hall  and  Kelsey — we're  accepted  as  the  chief 
council.  But  there  are  four  of  us,  and  all  this  country 
is  new  to  all  of  us.  The  men  now  are  like  a  bunch 
of  cattle  ready  to  stampede.  They're  nervous,  ready 
to  jump  at  anything.  Wrong  way,  Jesse.  They  ought 
to  be  as  steady  as  any  of  the  trains  that  have  gone 
across;  1843,  when  the  Applegates  crossed;  1846,  when 
the  Donners  went — every  year  since.  Our  folks — well, 
if  you  ask  me,  I  really  think  they're  scared." 

"That's  hard,  Cale!" 

"Yes,  hard  for  me  to  say  to  you,  with  your  wife  sad 
and  your  girl  just  now  able  to  sit  up — yes,  it's  hard. 
Harder  still  since  we  both  know  it's  your  own  personal 
matter — this  quarrel  of  those  two  young  men,  which 
I  don't  need  explain.  That's  at  the  bottom  of  the  train's 


uneasiness." 


"Well,  they've  both  gone  now." 

"Yes,  both.  If  half  of  the  both  were  here  now 
you'd  see  the  people  quiet.  Oh,  you  can't  explain 
leadership,  Jesse !  Some  have  it,  most  don't.  He  had. 
|We  know  he  had.  I  don't  suppose  many  of  those  folks 
ever  figured  it  out,  or  do  now.  But  they'd  fall  in,  not 
knowing  why." 

308 


JIM  BRIDGER  FORGETS 

"As  it  is,  I'll  admit,  there  seems  to  be  something  in 
the  air.  They  say  birds  know  when  an  earthquake  is 
coming.  I  feel  uneasy  myself,  and  don't  know  why. 
I  started  for  Oregon.  I  don't  know  why.  Do  you 
suppose " 

The  speculations  of  either  man  ceased  as  both  caught 
sight  of  a  little  dust  cloud  far  off  across  the  sage, 
steadily  advancing  down  the  slope. 

"Hum!  And  who's  that,  Jesse?'*  commented  the 
Ohio  leader.  "Get  your  big  glass,  Jesse." 

Wingate  went  to  his  wagon  and  returned  with  the 
great  telescope  he  sometimes  used,  emblem  of  his 
authority. 

"One  man,  two  packs,"  said  he  presently.  "All 
alone  so  far  as  I  can  see.  He's  Western  enough — some 
post-trapper,  I  suppose.  Rides  like  an  Indian  and 
dressed  like  one,  but  he's  white,  because  he  has  a  beard." 

"Let  me  see."  Price  took  the  glass.  "He  looks 
familiar!  See  if  you  don't  think  it's  Jim  Bridger. 
What's  he  coming  for — two  hundred  miles  away  from 
his  own  post?" 

It  was  Jim  Bridger,  as  the  next  hour  proved,  and  why 
he  came  he  himself  was  willing  to  explain  after  he  had 
eaten  and  smoked. 

"I  camped  twelve  mile  back,"  said  he,  "an*  pushed  in 
this  mornin'.  I  jest  had  a  idee  I'd  sornter  over  in 
here,  see  how  ye  was  gittin'  along.  Is  your  hull  train 
made  here?" 

309 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"No,"  Wingate  answered.  "The  Missouri  wagons 
are  ahead." 

"Is  Woodhull  with  ye?" 

"No." 

"Whar'sheat?" 

"We  don't  know.  Major  Banion  and  Jackson,  with 
a  half  dozen  packs,  no  wagons,  have  given  up  the  trip. 
They've  split  off  for  California — left  their  wagons." 

"An'  so  has  Sam  Woodhull,  huh?" 

"We  suppose  so.  That's  the  word.  He  took  about 
fifteen  wagons  with  him.  That's  why  we  look  cut 
down." 

"Rest  of  ye  goin'  on  through,  huh?" 

"I  am.     I  hope  the  others  will." 

"Hit's  three  days  on  to  whar  the  road  leaves  for 
Calif orny — on  the  Raft  River.  Mebbe  more'll  leave 
ye  thar,  huh?" 

"We  don't  know.  We  hope  not.  I  hear  the  fords 
are  bad,  especially  the  crossing  of  the  Snake.  This  is 
a  big  river.  My  people  are  uneasy  about  it." 

"Yes,  hit's  bad  enough,  right  often.  Thar's  falls  in 
them  canons  hundreds  o'  feet  high,  makin'  a  roarin' 
ye  kin  hear  forty  mile,  mebbe.  The  big  ford's  erroun' 
two  hunderd  mile  ahead.  That'd  make  me  four  hun- 
derd  mile  away  from  home,  an'  four  hunderd  to  ride 
back  agin'  huh?  Is  that  fur  enough  fer  a  ol'  man, 
with  snow  comin'  on  soon?" 

"You  don't  mean  you'd  guide  us  on  that  far?  What 
charge?" 

310 


JIM  BRIDGER  FORGETS 

"I  come  fer  that,  mainly.  Charge  ye?  I  won't 
charge  ye  nothin'.  What  do  ye  s'pose  Jim  Bridger'd 
care  ef  ye  all  was  drownded  in  the  Snake?  Ain't  thar 
plenty  more  pilgrims  whar  ye  all  come  from?  Won't 
hey  be  out  here  next  year,  with  money  ter  spend  with 
my  pardner  Vasquez  an'  me?" 

"Then  how  could  we  pay  you?" 

"Ye  kain't.    Whar's  Miss  Molly?" 

"You  want  to  see  her?" 

"Yes,  elsewhy'dlask?" 

"Come,"  said  Wingate,  and  led  the  way  to  Molly's 
ittle  cart.  The  girl  was  startled  when  she  saw  the 
old  scout,  her  wide  eyes  asking  her  question. 

"Mornin',  Miss  Molly!"  he  began,  his  leathery  face 
wrinkling  in  a  smile.  "Ye  didn't  expect  me,  an'  I  didn't 
neither.  I'm  glad  ye're  about  well  o'  that  arrer  wound. 
I  kerried  a  arrerhead  under  my  shoulder  blade  sever'l 
years  oncet,  ontel  Preacher  Whitman  cut  hit  out.  Hit 
felt  right  crawly  all  the  time  till  then. 

"Yes,  I  jest  sorntered  up  couple  hundred  mile  this 
mornin',  Miss  Molly,  ter  see  how  ye  all  was  gettin' 
along — one  thing  er  another." 

Without  much  regard  to  others,  he  now  led  Molly 
a  little  apart  and  seated  her  on  the  sage  beside  him. 

"Will  Banion  and  Bill  Jackson  has  went  on  to  Cali- 
iforny,  Miss  Molly,"  said  he.  "You  know  why." 

Mollie  nodded. 

"Ye'dorto!    Ye  told  him." 

"Yes,  I  did." 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"I  know.  Him  an'  me  had  a  talk.  Owin'  you  an* 
me  all  he'll  ever  make,  he  allowed  to  pay  nothin' ! 
Which  is,  admittin'  he  loves  you,  he  don't  take  no 
advice,  ter  finish  that  weddin'  with  another  man  sub- 
stertuted.  No,  says  he,  'I  kain't  marry  her,  because  I 
love  her !'  says  he.  Now,  that's  crazy.  Somethin'  deep 
under  that,  Miss  Molly." 

"Let's  not  talk  about  it,  please." 

"All  right.    Let's  talk  erbout  Sam  Woodhull,  huh?" 

"No!" 

"Then  mebbe  I'd  better  be  goin'.  I  know  you  don't 
want  ter  talk  erbout  me!"  His  wrinkling  smile  said 
he  had  more  to  tell. 

"Miss  Molly,"  said  he  at  last,  "I  mout  as  well  tell 
ye.  Sam  Woodhull  is  on  the  way  atter  Will  Banion. 
He's  like  enough  picked  out  a  fine  bunch  o'  horse  thiefs 
ter  go  erlong  with  him.  He  knows  somethin'  erbout 
the  gold — I  jest  found  out  how. 

"Ye  see,  some  men  ain't  above  shinin'  up  to  a  Injun 
womern  even,  such  bein'  mebbe  lonesome.  Sam  Wood- 
hull  wasn't.  He  seed  one  o'  my  fam'ly  wearin'  a  shiny 
thing  on  her  neck.  Hit  were  a  piece  o'  gold  Kit  give 
me  atter  I  give  you  mine.  He  trades  the  womern  out  o' 
her  necklace — fer  all  o'  two  pesos,  Mexican.  But  she 
not  talkin'  Missoury,  an'  him  not  talkin'  Shoshone, 
they  don't  git  fur  on  whar  the  gold  come  from. 

"She  done  told  him  she  got  hit  from  me,  but  he 
don't  say  a  word  ter  me  erbout  that ;  he's  too  wise.  But 
she  did  tell  him  how  Will  Banion  gits  some  mules  an' 

312 


JIM  BRIDGER  FORGETS 

packs  o'  me.    From  then,  plain  guessin',  he  allows  tea 
watch  Banion. 

"My  womern  keeps  say  in' — not  meanin'  no  harm — 
thet  thar's  plenty  more  necklaces  in  Cal'for;  because 
she's  heard  me  an'  Banion  say  that  word,  'Calif orny.' 

"Slim  guessin'  hit  were,  Miss  Molly,  but  enough  fer 
a  man  keen  as  Sam,  that's  not  pertickler,  neither.  His 
plan  was  ter  watch  whar  the  packs  went.  He  knowed 
ef  Banion  went  ter  Oregon  he'd  not  use  packs. 

"Huh!  Fine  time  he'll  have,  follerin'  that  boy  an* 
them  mules  with  wagons !  I'm  easier  when  I  think  o' 
that.  Because,  Miss  Molly,  ef  them  two  does  meet 
away  from  friends  o'  both,  thar's  goin'  to  be  trouble, 
an'  trouble  only  o'  one  kind." 

Again  Molly  Wingate  nodded,  pale  and  silent. 

"Well,  a  man  has  ter  take  keer  o'  his  own  self,"  went 
on  Bridger.  "But  that  ain't  all  ner  most  what  brung 
me  here." 

"What  was  it  then?"  demanded  Molly.  "A  long 
ride!" 

"Yeh.  Eight  hunderd  mile  out  an'  back,  ef  I  see 
ye  across  the  Snake,  like  I  allow  I'd  better  do.  I'm 
doin'  hit  fer  you,  Miss  Molly.  I'm  ol'  an'  ye're  young; 
I'm  a  wild  man  an'  ye're  one  o'  God's  wimern.  But 
I  had  sLsters  oncet — white  they  was,  like  you.  So  the 
eight  hunderd  mile  is  light.  But  thet  ain't  why  I  come, 
neither,  or  all  why,  yit." 

"What  is  it  then  you  want  to  tell  me?  Is  it  about — 
him?" 

313 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Bridger  nodded.  "Yes.  The  only  trouble  is,  I 
don't  know  what  it  is." 

"Now  you're  foolish!" 

"Shore  I  am !  Ef  I  had  a  few  drinks  o'  good  likker 
mebbe  I'd  be  foolisher— -er  wiser.  Leastways,  I'd  be 
more  like  I  was  when  I  plumb  forgot  what  'twas  Kit 
Carson  said  to  me  when  we  was  spreein'  at  Laramie. 
He  had  somethin'  ter  do,  somethin'  he  was  goin'  ter  do, 
somethin'  I  was  ter  do  f  er  him,  er  mebee-so,  next  season, 
atter  he  got  East  an'  got  things  done  he  was  goin'  ter 
do.  Ye  see,  Kit's  in  the  Army." 

"Was  it  about— him?" 

"That's  what  I  kain't  tell.  I  jest  sorntered  over  here 
a  few  hunderd  mile  ter  ask  ye  what  ye  s'pose  it  is  that 
I've  plumb  f  ergot,  me  not  havin'  the  same  kind  o'  likker 
right  now. 

"When  me  an'  Bill  was  havin'  a  few  afore  he  left 
I  was  right  on  the  p'int  o'  rememberin'  what  it  was  I 
was  fergittin'.  I  don't  make  no  doubt,  ef  Kit  an'  me 
er  Bill  an'  me  could  only  meet  an'  drink  along  day  er 
so  hit'd  all  come  plain  to  me.  But  all  by  myself,  an' 
sober,  an'  not  sociable  with  Dang  Yore  Eyes  jest  now, 
I  sw'ar,  I  kain't  think  o'  nothin'.  What's  a  girl's 
mind  fer  ef  hit  hain't  to  think  o'  things?" 

"It  was  about — him?  It  was  about  Kit  Carson, 
something  he  had — was  it  about  the  gold  news?" 

"Mebbe.     I  don't  know." 

"Did  he — Mr.  Banion — say  anything?" 

"Mostly  erbout  you,  an'  not  much.     He  only  said  ef 


JIM  BRIDGER  FORGETS 

I  ever  got  any  mail  to  send  it  ter  the  Judge  in  the  Wil 
lamette  settlements." 

"He  does  expect  to  come  back  to  Oregon !" 

"How  can  I  tell  ?  My  belief,  he'd  better  jump  in  the 
Percific  Ocean.  He's  a  damn  fool,  Miss  Molly.  Ef 
a  man  loves  a  womern,  that's  somethin'  that  never  orto 
wait.  Yit  he  goes  teeterin'  erroun'  like  he  had  from 
now  ter  doomsday  ter  marry  the  girl  which  he  loves  too 
much  fer  ter  marry  her.  That  makes  me  sick.  Yit  he 
has  resemblances  ter  a  man,  too,  some  ways — faint 
resemblances,  yes.  Fer  instance,  I'll  bet  a  gun  flint 
these  here  people  that's  been  hearin'  erbout  the  ford  o' 
the  Snake'd  be  a  hull  lot  gladder  ef  they  knew  Will 
Banion  was  erlong.  Huh?" 

Molly  Wingate  was  looking  far  away,  pondering 
many  things. 

"Well,  anyways,  hit's  even-Stephen  fer  them  both 
two  now,"  went  on  Bridger,  "an*  may  God  perteck  the 
right  an'  the  devil  take  the  hin'mostest.  They'll  like 
enough  both  marry  Injun  wimern  an'  settle  down  in 
Calif orny.  Out  o'  sight,  out  o'  mind.  Love  me  little, 
love  me  long.  Lord  Lovell,  he's  mounted  his  milk- 
white  steed.  Farewell,  sweet  sir,  partin'  is  such  sweet 
sorrer;  like  ol'  Cap'n  Bonneville  uster  say.  But  o'  all 
the  messes  any  fool  bunch  o'  pilgrims  ever  got  inter, 
this  is  the  worstest,  an'  hit  couldn't  be  no  worser. 

"Now,  Miss  Molly,  ye're  a  plumb  diserpintment  tei, 
me.  I  jest  drapped  in  ter  see  ef  ye  couldn't  tell  me 

315 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

what  hit  was  Kit  done  told  me.     But  ye  kain't.     Whar 
is  yer  boasted  superiorness  as  a  womern? 

"But  now,  me,  havin'  did  forty  mile  a  day  over  that 
country  yan,  I  need  sustenance,  an*  I'm  goin'  to  see  ef 
ol'  Cap'  Grant,  the  post  trader,  has  ary  bit  o'  Hundson 
Bay  rum  left.  Ef  he  has  hit's  mine,  an*  ef  not,  Jim 
Bridger's  a  liar,  an*  that  I  say  deliberate.  I'm  goin' 
to  try  to  git  inter  normal  condition  enough  fer  to 
remember  a  few  plain,  simple  truths,  seein'  as  you  all 
kain't.  Way  hit  is,  this  train's  in  a  hell  of  a  fix,  an' 
hit  couldn't  be  no  worsen'1 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL 

THE  news  of  Jim  Bridget's  arrival,  and  the 
swift  rumor  that  he  would  serve  as  pilot  for 
the  train  over  the  dangerous  portion  of  the 
route  ahead,  spread  an  instantaneous  feeling  of  relief 
throughout  the  hesitant  encampment  at  this,  the  last 
touch  with  civilization  east  of  the  destination.     He 
paused  briefly  at  one  or  another  wagon  after  he  had 
made  his  own  animals  comfortable,  laughing  and  jest 
ing  in  his  own  independent  way,  en  route  to  fulfill  his 
promise  to  himself  regarding  the  trader's  rum. 

In  most  ways  the  old  scout's  wide  experience  gave 
his  dicta  value.  In  one  assertion,  however,  he  was 
wide  of  the  truth,  or  short  of  it.  So  far  from  things 
being  as  bad  as  they  could  be,  the  rapid  events  of  that 
same  morning  proved  that  still  more  confusion  was  to 
ensue,  and  that  speedily. 

There  came  riding  into  the  post  from  the  westward 
a  little  party  of  old-time  mountain  men,  driving  their 
near-spent  mounts  and  packs  at  a  speed  unusual  even 
in  that  land  of  vast  distances.  They  were  headed  by 
a  man  well  known  in  that  vicinity  who,  though  he  had 
removed  to  California  since  the  fur  days,  made  annual 
pilgrimage  to  meet  the  emigrant  trains  at  Fort  Hall 

317 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

in  order  to  do  proselyting  for  California,  extolling  the 
virtues  of  that  land  and  picturing  in  direst  fashion  the 
horrors  of  the  road  thence  to  Oregon  and  the  worth- 
lessness  of  Oregon  if  ever  attained.  "Old  Greenwood" 
was  the  only  name  by  which  he  was  known.  He  was 
an  old,  old  man,  past  eighty  then,  some  said,  with  a 
deep  blue  eye,  long  white  hair,  a  long  and  unkempt 
beard  and  a  tongue  of  unparalleled  profanity.  He 
came  in  now,  shouting  and  singing,  as  did  the  men  of 
the  mountains  making  the  Rendezvous  in  the  old  days, 

"How,  Greenwood !  What  brings  ye  here  so  late  ?" 
demanded  his  erstwhile  crony,  Jim  Bridger,  advancing, 
tin  cup  in  hand,  to  meet  him.  "Light.  Eat.  Special, 
drink.  How — to  the  old  times !" 

"Old  times  be  damned !"  exclaimed  Old  Greenwood. 
"These  is  new  times." 

He  lifted  from  above  the  chafed  hips  of  his  trem 
bling  horse  two  sacks  of  something  very  heavy. 

"How  much  is  this  worth  to  ye?"  he  demanded  of 
Bridger  and  the  trader.  "Have  ye  any  shovels? 
Have  ye  any  picks?  Have  ye  flour,  meal,  sugar — 
anything?" 

"Gold !"  exclaimed  Jim  Bridger.  "Kit  Carson  did 
not  lie !  He  never  did !" 

And  they  did  not  know  how  much  this  was  worth. 
They  had  no  scales  for  raw  gold,  nor  any  system  of 
valuation  for  it.  And  they  had  no  shovels  and  no 
pickaxes;  and  since  the  families  had  come  they  now 
had  very  little  flour  at  Fort  Hall. 


WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL 

But  now  they  had  the  news !  This  was  the  greatest 
news  that  ever  came  to  old  Fort  Hall — the  greatest 
news  America  knew  for  many  a  year,  or  the  world — 
the  news  of  the  great  gold  strikes  in  California. 

Old  Greenwood  suddenly  broke  out,  "Have  we  left 
the  mines  an'  come  this  fur  fer  nothin'?  I  tell  ye, 
we  must  have  supplies !  A  hundred  dollars  fer  a  pick ! 
A  hundred  dollars  fer  a  shovel!  A  hundred  dollars 
fer  a  pair  o'  blankets !  An  ounce  fer  a  box  of  sardines, 
damn  ye!  An  ounce  fer  half  a  pound  o'  butter!  A 
half  ounce  fer  a  aig!  Anything  ye  like  fer  anything 
that's  green!  Three  hundred  fer  a  gallon  o'  likker! 
A  ounce  for  a  box  o'  pills !  Eight  hundred  fer  a  barrel 
o'  flour!  Same  fer  pork,  same  fer  sugar,  same  fer 
coffee !  Damn  yer  picayune  hides,  we'll  show  ye  what 
prices  is !  What's  money  to  us  ?  We  can  git  the  pure 
gold  that  money's  made  out  of,  an*  git  it  all  we  want! 
Hooray  fer  Californy!" 

He  broke  into  song.  His  comrades  roared  in 
Homeric  chorus  with  him,  passing  from  one  to  another 
of  the  current  ditties  of  the  mines.  They  declared  in 
unison,  "Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  man!" 
Then  they  swung  off  to  yet  another  classic  ballad : 

There  was  an  old  woman  who  had  three  sons — > 

Joshua,  James  and  John! 
Josh  got  shot,  and  Jim  got  drowned, 
And  John  got  lost  and  never  was  found, 
And  that  was  the  end  of  the  woman's  three  sons, 

Joshua,  James  and  John. 

Having  finished  the  obsequies  of  the  three  sons,  not 
319 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

once  but  many  times,  they  went  forward  with  yet  an 
other  adaptation,  following  Old  Greenwood,  who  stood 
with  head  thrown  back  and  sang  with  tones  of  Bashan : 

Oh,  then  Susannah, 

Don't  you  cry  fer  me!  * 

<.  I'm  goiri  to  Calif ornuah, 

With  my  'wash  pan  on  my  knee. 

The  news  of  the  gold  was  out.  Bridger  forgot  his 
cups,  forgot  his  friends,  hurried  to  Molly  Wingate's 
cart  again. 

"Hit's  true,  Miss  Molly!"  he  cried — "truer'n  true 
hitself !  Yan's  men  just  in  from  Californy,  an'  they've 
got  two  horseloads  o'  gold,  an'  they  say  hit's  nothin' — 
they  come  out  fer  supplies.  They  tried  to  stop  Will 
Banion — they  did  trade  some  with  Woodhull.  They're 
nigh  to  Humboldt  by  now  an'  goin'  hard.  Miss  Molly, 
gal,  he's  in  ahead  o'  the  hull  country,  an'  got  six  months 
by  hisself!  Lord  give  him  luck!  Hit'll  be  winter 
afore  the  men  back  East  kin  know.  He's  one  year 
ahead — thanks  ter  yer  lie  ter  me,  an  ter  Kit,  and  Kit's 
ter  his  General. 

"Gold!  Ye  kain't  hide  hit  an'  ye  kain't  find  hit  an' 
ye  kain't  dig  hit  up  an'  ye  kain't  keep  hit  down.  Miss 
Molly,  gal,  I  like  ye,  but  how  I  do  wish't  ye  was  a  man, 
so's  you  an'  me  could  celerbrate  this  here  fitten !" 

"Listen!"  said  the  girl.  "Our  bugle!  That's 
Assembly!" 

"Yes,  they'll  all  be  there.  Come  when  ye  kin. 
Hell's  a-poppin'  now!" 

The  emigrants,  indeed,  deserted  their  wagons,  gath- 
320 


WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL 

ering  in  front  of  the  stockade,  group  after  group. 
There  was  a  strange  scene  on  the  far-flung,  unknown, 
fateful  borderlands  of  the  country  Senator  McDuffie 
but  now  had  not  valued  at  five  dollars  for  the  whole. 
All  these  now,  half-way  across,  and  with  the  ice  and 
snow  of  winter  cutting  off  pursuit  for  a  year,  had  the 
great  news  which  did  not  reach  publication  in  the  press 
of  New  York  and  Baltimore  until  September  of  1848. 
It  did  not  attain  notice  of  the  floor  of  Congress  until 
December  fifth  of  that  year,  although  this  was  news 
that  went  to  the  very  foundation  of  this  republic ;  which, 
indeed,  was  to  prove  the  means  of  the  perpetuity  of 
this  republic. 

The  drunken  hunters  in  their  ragged  wools,  their 
stained  skins,  the  emigrants  in  their  motley  garb — 
come  this  far  they  knew  not  why,  since  men  will  not 
admit  of  Destiny  in  nations — also  knew  not  that  they 
were  joying  over  the  death  of  slavery  and  the  life  of 
the  Union.  They  did  not  know  that  now,  in  a  flash, 
all  the  old  arguments  and  citations  over  slavery  and 
secession  were  ancient  and  of  no  avail.  The  wagoners 
of  the  Sangamon,  in  Illinois,  gathered  here,  roistering, 
did  not  know  that  they  were  dancing  on  the  martyr's 
grave  of  Lincoln,  or  weaving  him  his  crown,  or  buying 
shot  and  shell  for  him  to  win  his  grievous  ordeal, 
brother  against  brother.  Yet  all  those  things  were 
settled  then,  beyond  that  range  of  the  Rockies  which 
senators  had  said  they  would  not  spend  a  dollar  to 
remove,  "were  they  no  more  than  ten  feet  high." 

321 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Even  then  the  Rockies  fell.  Even  then  the  great 
trains  of  the  covered  wagons,  driven  by  men  who  never 
heard  of  Destiny,  achieved  their  places  on  the  unwritten 
scroll  of  Time. 

The  newcomers  from  beyond  the  Sierras,  crazed 
with  their  easy  fortune,  and  now  inflamed  yet  further 
by  the  fumes  of  alcohol,  even  magnified  the  truth,  as 
it  then  seemed.  They  spent  their  dust  by  the  handful. 
They  asked  for  skillets,  cooking  pans,  that  they  could 
wash  more  gold.  They  wanted  saws,  nails,  axes,  ham 
mers,  picks.  They  said  they  would  use  the  wagon 
boxes  for  Long  Toms.  They  said  if  men  would  unite 
in  companies  to  dam  and  divert  the  California  rivers 
they  would  lay  bare  ledges  of  broken  gold  which  would 
need  only  scooping  up.  The  miners  would  pay  any 
thing  for  labor  in  iron  and  wood.  They  would  buy 
any  food  and  all  there  was  of  it  at  a  dollar  a  pound. 
They  wanted  pack  horses  to  cross  the  Humboldt  D^ert 
loaded.  They  would  pay  any  price  for  men  to  handle 
horses  for  a  fast  and  steady  flight. 

Because,  they  said,  there  was  no  longer  any  use  in 
measuring  life  by  the  old  standards  of  value.  Wages 
at  four  bits  a  day,  a  dollar  a  day,  two  dollars,  the  old 
prices — why,  no  man  would  work  for  a  half  hour  for 
such  return  when  any  minute  he  might  lift  twenty 
dollars  in  the  hollow  of  an  iron  spoon.  Old  Green 
wood  had  panned  his  five  hundred  in  a  day.  Men  had 
taken  two  thousand — three — in  a  week ;  in  a  week,  men, 
not  in  a  year!  There  could  be  no  wage  scale  at  all. 

322 


WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL 

Labor  was  a  thing  gone  by.  Wealth,  success,  ease, 
luxury  was  at  hand  for  the  taking.  What  a  man  had 
dreamed  for  himself  he  now  could  have.  He  could 
overleap  all  the  confining  limits  of  his  life,  and  even 
if  weak,  witless,  ignorant  or  in  despair,  throw  all  that 
aside  in  one  vast  bound  into  attainment  and  enjoyment. 

Rich  ?  Why  should  any  man  remain  poor  ?  Work  ? 
Why  should  work  be  known,  save  the  labor  of  picking 
up  pure  gold — done,  finished,  delivered  at  hand  to  wait 
ing  and  weary  humanity?  Human  cravings  could  no 
longer  exist.  Human  disappointment  was  a  thing  no 
more  to  be  known.  In  California,  just  yonder,  was 
gold,  gold,  gold !  Do  you  mind — can  you  think  of  it, 
men?  Gold,  gold,  gold!  The  sun  had  arisen  at  last 
on  the  millennial  day!  Now  might  man  be  happy 
and  grieve  no  more  forever ! 

Arguments  such  as  these  did  not  lack  and  were  not 
needed  with  the  emigrants.  It  took  but  a  leap  to  the 
last  conclusion.  Go  to  California?  Why  should  they 
not  go?  Had  it  not  been  foreordained  that  they  should 
get  the  news  here,  before  it  was  too  late?  Fifty  miles 
more  and  they  had  lost  it.  A  week  earlier  and  they 
would  not  have  known  it  for  a  year.  Go  to  Oregon 
and  plow?  Why  not  go  to  California  and  dig  in  a 
day  what  a  plow  would  earn  in  a  year? 

Call  it  stubbornness  or  steadfastness,  at  least  Jesse 
Wingate's  strength  of  resolution  now  became  manifest. 
At  first  almost  alone,  he  stayed  the  stampede  by  holding 
for  Oregon  in  the  council  with  his  captains. 
323 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

They  stood  near  the  Wingate  wagon,  the  same  which 
had  carried  him  into  Indiana,  thence  into  Illinois,  now 
this  far  on  the  long  way  to  Oregon.  Old  and  gray  was 
Mary  Ann,  as  he  called  his  wagon,  by  now,  the  paint 
ground  from  felly,  spoke  and  hub,  the  sides  dust  cov 
ered,  the  tilt  disfigured  and  discolored.  He  gazed  at 
the  time-worn,  sturdy  frame  with  something  akin  to 
affection.  The  spokes  were  wedged  to  hold  them  tight, 
the  rims  were  bound  with  hide,  worn  away  at  the  edges 
where  the  tire  gave  no  covering,  the  tires  had  been  reset 
again  and  again.  He  shook  the  nearest  wheel  to  test  it. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "we  all  show  wear.  But  I  see  little 
use  in  changing  a  plan  once  made  in  a  man's  best  sober 
judgment.  For  me,  I  don't  think  all  the  world  has 
been  changed  overnight." 

"Oh,  well,  now,"  demanded  Kelsey,  his  nomad  Ken 
tucky  blood  dominant,  "what  use  holding  to  any  plan 
just  for  sake  of  doing  it?  If  something  better  comes, 
why  not  take  it  ?  That  stands  to  reason.  We  all  came 
out  here  to  better  ourselves.  These  men  have  done  in 
six  months  what  you  and  I  might  not  do  in  ten  years 
in  Oregon." 

"They'd  guide  us  through  to  California,  too,"  he 
went  on.  "We've  no  guide  to  Oregon." 

Even  Caleb  Price  nodded. 

"They  all  say  that  the  part  from  here  on  is  the  worst 
— drier  and  drier,  and  in  places  very  rough.  And  the 
two  fords  of  the  Snake — well,  I  for  one  wish  we  were 
across  them.  That's  a  big  river,  and  a  bad  one.  And 

324 


WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL 

if  we  crossed  the  Blue  Mountains  all  right,  there's  the 
Cascades,  worse  than  the  Blues,  and  no  known  trail  for 
wagons." 

"I  may  have  to  leave  my  wagons,"  said  Jesse  Win- 
gate,  "but  if  I  do  I  aim  to  leave  them  as  close  to  the 
Willamette  Valley  as  I  can.  I  came  out  to  farm.  I 
don't  know  California.  How  about  you,  Hall?  What 
do  your  neighbors  say?" 

"Much  as  Price  says.  They're  worn  out  and  scared. 
They're  been  talking  about  the  Snake  crossings  ever 
since  we  left  the  Soda  Springs.  Half  want  to  switch 
for  California.  A  good  many  others  would  like  to  go 
back  home — if  they  thought  they'd  ever  get  there!" 

"But  we've  got  to  decide,"  urged  Wingate.  "Can 
we  count  on  thirty  wagons  to  go  through?  Others 
have  got  through  in  a  season,  and  so  can  we  if  we  stick. 
Price?" 

His  hesitant  glance  at  his  staunch  trail  friend's  face 
decided  the  latter. 

"I'll  stick  for  Oregon !"  said  Caleb  Price.  "I\e  got 
my  wife  and  children  along.  I  want  my  donation 
lands." 

"You,  Hall?" 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Hall,  the  third  column  leader, 
slowly.  "Like  to  try  a  whirl  in  California,  but  if 
there's  so  much  gold  there  next  year'll  do.  I  want  my 
lands." 

"Why,  there's  almost  ten  thousand  people  in  Oregon 
by  now,  or  will  be  next  year,"  argued  Wingate.  "It 

325 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

may  get  to  be  a  territory — naybe  not  a  state,  but  any 
ways  a  territory,  some  time.  And  it's  free !  Not  like 
Texas  and  all  this  new  Mexican  land  just  coming  in 
by  the  treaty.  What  do  you  say,  finally,  Kelsey?" 

The  latter  chewed  tobacco  for  some  time. 

"You  put  it  to  me  hard  to  answer,"  said  he.  "Any 
one  of  us'd  like  to  try  California.  It  will  open  faster 
than  Oregon  if  all  this  gold  news  is  true.  Maybe  ten 
thousand  people  will  come  out  next  year,  for  all  we 
know." 

"Yes,  with  picks  and  shovels,"  said  Jesse  Wingate. 
"Did  ever  you  see  pick  or  shovel  build  a  country  ?  Did 
ever  you  see  steel  traps  make  or  hold  one?  Oregon's 
ours  because  we  went  out  five  years  ago  with  wagons 
and  plows — we  all  know  that.  No,  friends,  waterways 
never  held  a  country.  No  path  ever  held  on  a  river — 
that's  for  exploring,  not  for  farming.  To  hold  a  coun 
try  you  need  wheels,  you  need  a  plow.  I'm  for 
Oregon !" 

"You  put  it  strong,"  admitted  Kelsey.  "But  the 
only  thing  that  holds  me  back  from  California  is  the 
promise  we  four  made  to  each  other  when  we  started. 
Our  train's  fallen  apart  little  by  little.  I'm  ole  Kain- 
tucky.  We  don't  rue  back,  and  we  keep  our  word. 
We  four  said  we'd  go  through.  I'll  stand  by  that. 
I'm  a  man  of  my  word." 

Imperiously  as  though  he  were  Pizarro's  self,  he 
drew  a  line  in  the  dust  of  the  trail. 

"Who's  for  Oregon?"  he  shouted;  again  demanded, 
326 


WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL 

as  silence  fell,  "This  side  for  Oregon!"  And  Kelsey 
of  Kentucky,  man  of  his  word,  turned  the  stampede 
definitely. 

Wingate,  his  three  friends;  a  little  group,  augment 
ing,  crossed  for  Oregon.  The  women  and  the  children 
stood  aloof, — sunbonneted  women,  brown,  some  with 
new-born  trail  babes  in  arms,  silent  as  they  always 
stood.  Across  from  the  Oregon  band  stood  almost  as 
many  men,  for  the  most  part  unmarried,  who  had  not 
given  hostages  to  fortune,  and  were  resolved  for  Cali 
fornia.  A  cheer  arose  from  these. 

"Who  wants  my  plow  ?"  demanded  a  stalwart  farmer 
from  Indiana,  more  than  fifteen  hundred  miles  from 
his  last  home.  "I  brung  her  this  fur  into  this  damned 
desert.  I'll  trade  her  fer  a  shovel  and  make  one  more 
try  fer  my  folks  back  home." 

He  loosed  the  wires  which  had  bound  the  implement 
to  the  tail  of  his  wagon  all  these  weary  miles.  It  fell 
to  the  ground  and  he  left  it  there. 

"Do  some  thinking,  men,  before  you  count  your  gold 
and  drop  your  plow.  Gold  don't  last,  but  the  soil  does. 
Ahead  of  you  is  the  Humboldt  Desert.  There's  no 
good  wagon  road  over  the  mountains  if  you  get  that 
far.  The  road  down  Mary's  River  is  a  real  gamble 
with  death.  Men  can  go  through  and  make  roads — 
yes;  but  where  are  the  women  and  the  children  to  stay? 
Think  twice,  men,  and  more  than  twice!"  Wingate 
spoke  solemnly. 

327 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Roll  out!  Roll  out!"  mocked  the  man  who  had 
abandoned  his  plow.  "This  way  for  Californy !" 

The  council  ended  in  turmoil,  where  hitherto  had 
been  no  more  than  a  sedate  daily  system.  Routine, 
become  custom,  gave  way  to  restless  movement,  excited 
argument.  Of  all  these  hundreds  now  encamped  on 
the  sandy  sagebrush  plain  in  the  high  desert  there  was 
not  an  individual  who  was  not  affected  in  one  way  or 
another  by  the  news  from  California,  and  in  most  cases 
it  required  some  sort  of  a  personal  decision,  made  prac 
tically  upon  the  moment.  Men  argued  with  their  wives 
heatedly;  women  gathered  in  groups,  talking,  weeping. 
The  stoic  calm  of  the  trail  was  swept  away  in  a  sort  of 
hysteria  which  seemed  to  upset  all  their  world  and  all 
its  old  values. 

Whether  for  Oregon  or  California,  a  revolution  in 
prices  was  worked  overnight  for  every  purchase  of 
supplies.  Flour,  horses,  tools,  everything  merchant 
able,  doubled  and  more  than  doubled.  Some  fifty 
wagons  in  all  now  formed  train  for  California,  which, 
in  addition  to  the  long  line  of  pack  animals,  left  the 
Sangamon  caravan,  so  called,  at  best  little  more  than 
half  what  it  had  been  the  day  before.  The  men  with 
out  families  made  up  most  of  the  California  train. 

The  agents  for  California,  by  force  of  habit,  still 
went  among  the  wagons  and  urged  the  old  arguments 
against  Oregon — the  savage  tribes  on  ahead,  the  for 
bidding  desolation  of  the  land,  the  vast  and  dangerous 
rivers,  the  certainty  of  starvation  on  the  way,  the  risk 

328 


WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL 

of  arriving  after  winter  had  set  in  on  the  Cascade 
Range — all  matters  of  which  they  themselves  spoke  by 
hearsay.  All  the  great  West  was  then  unknown. 
Moreover,  Fort  Hall  was  a  natural  division  point,  as 
quite  often  a  third  of  the  wagons  of  a  train  might  be 
bound  for  California  even  before  the  discovery  of  gold. 
But  Wingate  and  his  associates  felt  that  the  Oregon 
immigration  for  that  year,  even  handicapped  as  now, 
ultimately  would  run  into  thousands. 

It  was  mid-morning  of  the  next  blazing  day  when 
he  beckoned  his  men  to  him. 

"Lets  pull  out,  he  said.  "Why  wait  for  the  Cali- 
f ornians  to  move  ?  Bridger  will  go  with  us  across  the 
Snake.  'Twill  only  be  the  worse  the  longer  we  lie  here, 
and  our  wagons  are  two  weeks  late  now." 

The  others  agreed.  But  there  was  now  little  train 
organization.  The  old  cheery  call,  "Catch  up!  Catch 
up !"  was  not  heard.  The  group,  the  family,  the  indi 
vidual  now  began  to  show  again.  True,  after  their 
leaders  came,  one  after  another,  rattling,  faded  wagons, 
until  the  dusty  trail  that  led  out  across  the  sage  flats 
[had  a  tenancy  stretched  out  for  over  a  half  mile,  with 
yet  other  vehicles  falling  in  behind ;  but  silent  and  grim 
[were  young  and  old  now  over  this  last  defection. 

"About  that  old  man  Greenwood,"  said  Molly  Win- 
[gate  to-  her  daughter  as  they  sat  on  the  same  jolting 
seat,  "I  don't  know  about  him.  I've  saw  elders  in  the 
church  with  whiskers  as  long  and  white  as  his'n,  but 
[you'd  better  watch  your  hog  pen.  For  me,  I  believe 

329 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

he's  a  liar.  It  like  enough  is  true  he  used  to  live  back 
in  the  Rockies  in  Injun  times,  and  he  may  be  eighty- 
five  years  old,  as  he  says,  and  California  may  have  a 
wonderful  climate,  the  way  he  says;  but  some  things 
I  can't  believe. 

"He  says,  now,  he  knows  a  man  out  in  California, 
a  Spanish  man,  who  was  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
old,  and  he  had  quite  a  lot  of  money,  gold  and  silver, 
he'd  dug  out  of  the  mountains.  Greenwood  says  he's 
known  of  gold  and  silver  for  years,  himself.  Well, 
this  Spanish  man  had  relatives  that  wanted  his  prop 
erty,  and  he'd  made  a  will  and  left  it  to  them;  but  he 
wouldn't  die,  the  climate  was  so  good.  So  his  folks 
allowed  maybe  if  they  sent  him  to  Spain  on  a  journey 
he'd  die  and  then  they'd  get  the  property  legal.  So  he 
went,  and  he  did  die;  but  he  left  orders  for  his  body 
to  be  sent  back  to  California  to  be  buried.  So  when 
his  body  came  they  buried  him  in  California,  the  way 
he  asked — so  Greenwood  says. 

"But  did  they  get  his  property?  Not  at  all!  The 
old  Spanish  man,  almost  as  soon  as  he  was  buried  in 
California  dirt,  he  came  to  life  again!  He's  alive 
to-day  out  there,  and  this  man  Greenwood  says  he's  a 
neighbor  of  his  and  he  knows  him  well !  Of  course, 
if  that's  true  you  can  believe  almost  anything  about 
what  a  wonderful  country  California  is.  But  for  one, 
I  ain't  right  sure.  Maybe  not  everybody  who  goes  to 
California  is  going  to  find  a  mountain  of  gold,  or  live 
to  be  three  hundred  years  old ! 

330 


WHEN  THE  ROCKIES  FELL 

"But  to  think,  Molly !  Here  you  knew  all  this  away 
back  to  Laramie!  Well,  if  the  hoorah  had  started 
there  'stead  of  here  there'd  be  dead  people  now  back 
of  us  more'n  there  is  now.  That  old  man  Bridger  told 
you — &vhy?  And  how  could  you  keep  the  secret?" 

"It  was  for  Will,"  said  Molly  simply.  "I  had  given 
him  up.  I  told  him  to  go  to  California  and  forget  me, 
and  to  live  things  down.  Don't  chide  me  any  more. 
I  tried  to  marry  the  man  you  wanted  me  to  marry. 
I'm  tired.  I'm  going  to  Oregon — to  forget.  I'll 
teach  school.  I'll  never,  never  marry — that's  settled 
at  last." 

"You  got  a  letter  from  Sam  Woodhull  too." 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"Huh!  Does  he  call  that  settled?  Is  he  going  to 
California  to  forget  you  and  live  things  down?" 

"He  says  not.     I  don't  care  what  he  says." 

"He'll  be  back." 

"Spare  his  journey!  It  will  do  him  no  good.  The 
Indian  did  me  a  kindness,  I  tell  you!" 

"Well,  anyways,  they're  both  off  on  the  same  journey 
now,  and  who  knows  what  or  which  ?  They  both  may 
be  three  hundred  years  old  before  they  find  a  mountain 
of  gold.  But  to  think — I  had  your  chunk  of  gold 
right  in  my  own  hands,  but  didn't  know  it !  The  same 
gold  my  mother's  wedding  ring  was  made  of,  that  was 
mine.  It's  right  thin  now,  child.  You  could  of  made 
a  dozen  out  of  that  lump,  like  enough." 

"I'll  never  need  one,  mother,"  said  Molly  Wingate. 
331 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

The  girl,  weeping,  threw  her  arms  about  her  mother's 
neck.  "You  ask  why  I  kept  the  secret,  even  then. 
He  kissed  me,  mother — and  he  was  a  thief !" 

"Yes,  I  know.  A  man  he  just  steals  a  girl's  heart 
out  through  her  lips.  Yore  paw  done  that  way  with 
me  once.  Git  up,  Dan!  You,  Daisy! 

"And  from  that  time  on,"  she  added  laughing,  "I 
been  trying  to  forget  him  and  to  live  him  down !" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE    CROSSING 

THREE  days  out  from  Fort  Hall  the  vanguard 
of  the  remnant  of  the  train,  less  than  a  fourth 
of  the  original  number,  saw  leaning  against 
a  gnarled  sagebrush  a  box  lid  which  had  scrawled  upon 
it  in  straggling  letters  one  word — "California."  Here 
now  were  to  part  the  pick  and  the  plow. 

Jim  Bridger,  sitting  his  gaunt  horse,  rifle  across 
saddle  horn,  halted  for  the  head  of  the  train  to  pull 
even  with  him. 

"This  here's  Cassia  Creek,"  said  he.  "Yan's  the 
trail  down  Raft  River  ter  the  Humboldt  and  acrost  the 
Sierrys  ter  Calif orny.  A  long,  dry  jump  hit  is,  by  all 
accounts.  The  Oregon  road  goes  on  down  the  Snake. 
Hit's  longer,  if  not  so  dry." 

Small  invitation  qffered  in  the  physical  aspect  of 
either  path.  The  journey  had  become  interminable. 
The  unspeakable  monotony,  whose  only  variant  was 
peril,  had  smothered  the  spark  of  hope  and  interest. 
The  allurement  of  mystery  had  wholly  lost  its  charm. 

The  train  halted  for  some  hours.  Once  more  dis 
cussion  rose. 

"Last  chance  for  Californy,  men,"  said  old  Jim 
333 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Bridger  calmly.  "Do-ee  see  the  tracks  ?  Here's  Green 
wood  come  in.  Yan's  where  Woodhull's  wagons  left 
the  road.  Below  that,  one  side,  is  the  tracks  o'  Banion's 
mules." 

"I  wonder,"  he  added,  "why  thar  hain't  ary  letter 
left  fer  none  o'  us  here  at  the  forks  o'  the  road." 

He  did  not  know  that,  left  in  a  tin  at  the  foot  of  the 
board  sign  certain  days  earlier,  there  had  rested  a  letter 
addressed  to  Miss  Molly  Wingate.  It  never  was  to 
reach  her.  Sam  Woodhull  knew  the  reason  why. 
Having  opened  it  and  read  it,  he  had  possessed  himself 
of  exacter  knowledge  than  ever  before  of  the  relations 
of  Banion  and  Molly  Wingate.  Bitter  as  had  been 
his  hatred  before,  it  now  was  venomous.  He  lived 
thenceforth  no  more  in  hope  of  gold  than  of  revenge. 

The  decision  for  or  against  California  was  some 
thing  for  serious  weighing  now  at  the  last  hour,  and 
it  affected  the  fortune  and  the  future  of  every  man, 
woman  and  child  in  all  the  train.  Never  a  furrow  was 
plowed  in  early  Oregon  but  ran  in  bones  and  blood; 
and  never  a  dollar  was  dug  in  gold  in  California — or 
ever  gained  in  gold  by  any  man — which  did  not  cost 
two  in  something  else  but  gold. 

Twelve  wagons  pulled  out  of  the  trail  silently,  one 
after  another,  and  took  the  winding  trail  that  led  to 
the  left,  to  the  west  and  south.  Others  watched  them, 
tears  in  their  eyes,  for  some  were  friends. 

Alone  on  her  cart  seat,  here  at  the  fateful  parting 
of  the  ways,  Molly  Wingate  sat  with  a  letter  clasped 

334 


THE  CROSSING 

in  her  hand,  frank  tears  standing  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
no  new  letter,  but  an  old  one.  She  pressed  the  pages 
to  her  heart,  to  her  lips,  held  them  out  at  arm's  length 
before  her  in  the  direction  of  the  far  land  which  some 
where  held  its  secrets. 

"Oh,  God  keep  you,  Will !"  she  said  in  her  heart,  and 
almost  audibly.  "Oh,  God  give  you  fortune,  Will,  and 
bring  you  back  to  me !" 

But  the  Oregon  wagons  closed  up  once  more  and 
held  their  way,  the  stop  not  being  beyond  one  camp, 
for  Bridger  urged  haste. 

The  caravan  course  now  lay  along  the  great  valley 
of  the  Snake.  The  giant  deeds  of  the  river  in  its 
canons  they  could  only  guess.  They  heard  of  tremen 
dous  falls,  of  gorges  through  which  no  boat  could  pass, 
vague  rumors  of  days  of  earlier  exploration;  but  they 
kept  to  the  high  plateaus,  dipping  down  to  the  crossings 
of  many  sharp  streams,  which  in  the  first  month  of 
their  journey  they  would  have  called  impassable.  It 
all  took  time.  They  were  averaging  now  not  twenty 
miles  daily,  but  no  more  than  half  that,  and  the  season 
was  advancing.  It  was  fall.  Back  home  the  wheat 
would  be  in  stack,  the  edges  of  the  corn  would  be  seared 
with  frost. 

The  vast  abundance  of  game  they  had  found  all  along 
now  lacked.  Some  rabbits,  a  few  sage  grouse,  nightly 
coyotes — that  made  all.  The  savages  who  now  hung 
on  their  flanks  lacked  the  stature  and  the  brave  trap 
pings  of  the  buffalo  plainsmen.  They  lived  on  horse 

335 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

meat  and  salmon,  so  the  rumor  came.  Now  their 
environment  took  hold  of  the  Pacific.  They  had  left 
the  East  wholly  behind. 

On  the  salmon  run  they  could  count  on  food,  not  so 
good  as  the  buffalo,  but  better  than  bacon  grown  soft 
and  rusty.  Changing,  accepting,  adjusting,  prevailing, 
the  wagons  went  on,  day  after  day,  fifty  miles,  a  hun 
dred,  two  hundred.  But  always  a  vague  uneasiness 
pervaded.  The  crossing  of  the  Snake  lay  on  ahead. 
The  moody  river  had  cast  upon  them  a  feeling  of  awe. 
Around  the  sage  fires  at  night  the  families  talked  of 
little  else  but  the  ford  of  the  Snake,  two  days  beyond 
the  Salmon  Falls. 

It  was  morning  when  the  wagons,  well  drawn  to 
gether  now,  at  last  turned  down  the  precipitous  decline 
which  took  them  from  the  high  plateau  to  the  water 
level.  Here  a  halt  was  called.  Bridger  took  full 
charge.  The  formidable  enterprise  confronting  them 
was  one  of  the  real  dangers  of  the  road. 

The  strong  green  waters  of  the  great  river  were 
divided  at  this  ancient  ford  by  two  midstream  islands, 
which  accounted  for  the  selection  of  the  spot  for  the 
daring  essay  of  a  bridgeless  and  boatless  crossing. 
There  was  something  mockingly  relentless  in  the  strong 
rippling  current,  which  cut  off  more  than  a  guess  at 
the  actual  depth.  There  was  no  ferry,  no  boat  nor 
means  of  making  one.  It  was  not  even  possible  to 
shore  up  the  wagon  beds  so  they  might  be  dry.  One 

336 


THE  CROSSING 

thing  sure  was  that  if  ever  a  wagon  was  swept  below 
the  crossing  there  could  be  no  hope  for  it. 

But  others  had  crossed  here,  and  even  now  a  certain 
rough  chart  existed,  handed  down  from  these.  Time 
now  for  a  leader,  and  men  now  were  thankful  for  the 
presence  of  a  man  who  had  seen  this  crossing  made. 

The  old  scout  held  back  the  company  leaders  and 
rode  into  the  stream  alone,  step  by  step,  scanning  the 
bottom.  He  found  it  firm.  He  saw  wheel  marks 
on  the  first  island.  His  horse,  ears  ahead,  saw  them 
also,  and  staggeringly  felt  out  the  way.  Belly-deep 
and  passable — yes. 

Bridger  turned  and  moved  a  wide  arm.  The  fore 
most  wagons  came  on  to  the  edge. 

The  men  now  mounted  the  wagon  seats,  two  to  each 
wagon.  Flankers  drove  up  the  loose  cattle,  ready  for 
their  turn  later.  Men  rode  on  each  side  the  lead  yoke 
of  oxen  to  hold  them  steady  on  their  footing,  Wingate, 
Price,  Kelsey  and  Hall,  bold  men  and  well  mounted, 
taking  this  work  on  themselves. 

The  plunge  once  made,  they  got  to  the  first  island, 
all  of  them,  without  trouble.  But  a  dizzying  flood  lay 
on  ahead  to  the  second  wheel-marked  island  in  the  river. 
To  look  at  the  rapid  surface  was  to  lose  all  sense  of 
direction.  But  again  the  gaunt  horse  of  the  scout  fell 
out,  the  riders  waded  in,  their  devoted  saddle  animals 
trembling  beneath  them.  Bridger,  student  of  fast 
fords,  followed  the  bar  upstream,  angling  with  it,  till 
a  deep  channel  offered  between  him  and  the  island. 

337 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

Unable  to  evade  this,  he  drove  into  it,  and  his  gallant 
mount  breasted  up  and  held  its  feet  all  the  way  across. 

The  thing  could  be  done!  Jim  Bridger  calmly 
turned  and  waved  to  the  wagons  to  come  on  from  the 
first  island. 

"Keep  them  jest  whar  we  was!"  he  called  back  to 
Hall  and  Kelsey,  who  had  not  passed  the  last  stiff 
water.  "Put  the  heavy  cattle  in  fust!  Hit  maybe 
won't  swim  them.  If  the  stuff  gets  wet  we  kain't  help 
that.  Tell  the  wimern  hit's  all  right." 

He  saw  his  friends  turn  back,  their  horses,  deep  in 
the  flood,  plunging  through  water  broken  by  their 
knees;  saw  the  first  wagons  lead  off  and  crawl  out 
upstream,  slowly  and  safely,  till  within  reach  of  his 
voice.  Molly  now  was  in  the  main  wagon,  and  her 
brother  Jed  was  driving. 

Between  the  lines  of  wading  horsemen  the  draft 
oxen  advanced,  following  the  wagons,  strung  out,  but 
all  holding  their  footing  in  the  green  water  that  broke 
white  on  the  upper  side  of  the  wagons.  A  vast  mur 
muring  roar  came  up  from  the  water  thus  retarded. 

They  made  their  way  to  the  edge  of  the  deep  channel, 
where  the  cattle  stood,  breasts  submerged. 

Bridger  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  shouted,  "Git  in 
thar !  Come  on  through !" 

They  plunged,  wallowed,  staggered;  but  the  lead 
yokes  saw  where  the  ford  climbed  the  bank,  made  for 
it,  caught  footing,  dragged  the  others  through! 

Wagon  after  wagon  made  it  safe.     It  was  desperate, 

338 


THE  CROSSING 

but,  being  done,  these  matter-of-fact  folk  wasted  no 
time  in  imaginings  of  what  might  have  happened. 
They  were  safe,  and  the  ford  thus  far  was  established 
so  that  the  others  need  not  fear. 

But  on  ahead  lay  what  they  all  knew  was  the  real 
danger — the  last  channel,  three  hundred  yards  of  rac 
ing,  heavy  water  which  apparently  no  sane  man  ever 
would  have  faced.  But  there  were  wheel  marks  on 
the  farther  shore.  Here  ran  the  road  to  Oregon. 

The  dauntless  old  scout  rode  in  again,  alone,  bending 
to  study  the  water  and  the  footing.  A  gravel  bar  led 
off  for  a  couple  of  rods,  flanked  by  deep  potholes.  Ten 
rods  out  the  bar  turned.  He  followed  it  up,  foot  by 
foot,  for  twenty  rods,  quartering.  Then  he  struck  out 
for  the  shore. 

The  bottom  was  hard,  yes;  but  the  bar  was  very 
crooked,  with  swimming  water  on  either  hand,  with 
potholes  ten  feet  deep  and  more  all  alongside.  And 
worst  of  all,  there  was  a  vast  sweep  of  heavy  water 
below  the  ford,  which  meant  destruction  and  death  for 
any  wagon  carried  down.  Well  had  the  crossing  of 
the  Snake  earned  its  sinister  reputation.  Courage  and 
care  alone  could  give  any  man  safe-conduct  here. 

The  women  and  children,  crying,  sat  in  the  wagons, 
watching  Bridger  retrace  the  ford.  Once  his  stum 
bling  horse  swam,  but  caught  footing.  He  joined 
them,  very  serious. 

fordin'  men,"  said  he,  "but  she's  mean,  she 
an.     Double  up  all  the  teams,  yoke  in  every 
339 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

loose  ox  an'  put  six  yoke  on  each  wagon,  er  they'll 
get  swep'  down,  shore's  hell.  Some  o'  them  will  hold 
the  others  ef  we  have  enough.  I'll  go  ahead,  an'  I 
want  riders  all  along  the  teams,  above  and  below,  ter 
hold  them  ter  the  line.  Hit  can  be  did — hit's  wicked 
water,  but  hit  can  be  did.  Don't  wait — always  keep 
things  movinV 

By  this  time  the  island  was  packed  with  the  loose 
cattle,  which  had  followed  the  wagons,  much  of  the 
time  swimming.  They  were  lowing  moaningly,  in 
terror — a  gruesome  thing  to  hear. 

The  leader  called  to  Price's  oldest  boy,  driving 
Molly's  cart,  "Tie  on  behind  the  big  wagon  with  a  long 
rope,  an'  don't  drive  in  tell  you  see  the  fust  two  yoke 
ahead  holdin'.  Then  they'll  drag  you  through  anyhow. 
Hang  onto  the  cart  whatever  happens,  but  if  you  do  get 
in,  keep  upstream  of  any  animile  that's  swimmin'." 

"All  set,  men?     Come  ahead!" 

He  led  off  again  at  last,  after  the  teams  were  doubled 
and  the  loads  had  been  piled  high  as  possible  to  keep 
them  dry.  Ten  wagons  were  left  behind,  it  being 
needful  to  drive  back,  over  the  roaring  channel,  some 
of  the  doubled  heavy  teams  for  them. 

They  made  it  well,  foot  by  foot,  the  cattle  sometimes 
swimming  gently,  confidently,  as  the  line  curved  down 
under  the  heavy  current,  but  always  enough  holding 
to  keep  the  team  safe.  The  horsemen  rode  alongside, 
exhorting,  assuring.  It  was  a  vast  relief  when  at  the 

340 


THE  CROSSING 

last  gravel  stretch  they  saw  the  wet  backs  of  the  oxen 
rise  high  once  more. 

"I'll  go  back,  Jesse,"  said  Kelsey,  the  man  who  had 
wanted  to  go  to  California.  "I  know  her  now." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  added  young  Jed  Wingate,  climb 
ing  down  from  his  wagon  seat  and  demanding  his 
saddle  horse,  which  he  mounted  bare-backed. 

It  was  they  two  who  drove  and  led  the  spare  yokes 
back  to  repeat  the  crossing  with  the  remaining  wagons. 
Those  on  the  bank  watched  them  anxiously,  for  they 
drove  straighter  across  to  save  time,  and  were  carried 
below  the  trail  on  the  island.  But  they  came  out 
laughing,  and  the  oxen  were  rounded  up  once  more 
and  doubled  in,  so  that  the  last  of  the  train  was  ready. 

"That's  a  fine  mare  of  Kelsey's,"  said  Wingate  to 
Caleb  Price,  who  with  him  was  watching  the  daring 
Kentuckian  at  his  work  on  the  downstream  and  more 
dangerous  side  of  the  linked  teams.  "She'll  go  any 
where." 

Price  nodded,  anxiously  regarding  the  Laboring  ad 
vance  of  the  last  wagons. 

"Too  light,"  said  he.  "I  started  with  a  ton  and  a 
half  on  the  National  Pike  across  Ohio  and  Indiana.  I 
doubt  if  we  average  five  hundred  now.  They  ford 
light." 

"Look !"  he  cried  suddenly,  and  pointed. 

They  all  ran  to  the  brink.  The  horsemen  were  try 
ing  to  stay  the  drift  of  the  line  of  cattle.  They  had 

341 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

worked  low  and  missed  footing.  Many  were  swim 
ming — the  wagons  were  afloat ! 

The  tired  lead  cattle  had  not  been  able  to  withstand 
the  pressure  of  the  heavy  water  a  second  time.  They 
were  off  the  ford ! 

But  the  riders  from  the  shore,  led  by  Jim  Bridger, 
got  to  them,  caught  a  rope  around  a  horn,  dragged 
them  into  line,  dragged  the  whole  gaunt  team  to  the 
edge  and  saved  the  day  for  the  lead  wagon.  The  others 
caught  and  held  their  footing,  labored  through. 

But  a  shout  arose.  Persons  ran  down  the  bank, 
pointing.  A  hundred  yards  below  the  ford,  in  the  full 
current  of  the  Snake,  the  lean  head  of  Kelsey's  mare 
was  flat,  swimming  hard  and  steadily,  being  swept 
downstream  in  a  current  which  swung  off  shore  below 
the  ford. 

"He's  all  right !"  called  Jed,  wet  to  the  neck,  sitting 
his  own  wet  mount,  safe  ashore  at  last.  "He's  swim 
ming  too.  They'll  make  it,  sure!  Come  onJ" 

He  started  off  at  a  gallop  downstream  along  the 
shore,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  two  black  objects,  now 
steadily  losing  distance  out  beyond.  But  old  Jim 
Bridger  put  his  hands  across  his  eyes  and  turned  away 
his  face.  He  knew ! 

It  was  now  plain  to  all  that  yonder  a  gallant  man 
and  a  gallant  horse  were  making  a  fight  for  life.  The 
grim  river  had  them  in  its  grip  at  last. 

In  a  moment  the  tremendous  power  of  the  heavy 
water  had  swept  Kelsey  and  his  horse  far  below  the 

342 


THE  CROSSING 

ford.  The  current  there  was  swifter,  noisier,  as 
though  exultant  in  the  success  of  the  scheme  the  river 
all  along  had  proposed. 

As  to  the  victims,  the  tragic  struggle  went  on  in 
silence.  If  the  man  called,  no  one  could  hear  him 
above  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  waters.  None  long 
had  any  hope  as  they  saw  the  white  rollers  bury  the 
two  heads,  of  the  horse  and  the  man,  while  the  set  of 
the  current  steadily  carried  them  away  from  the  shore. 
It  was  only  a  miracle  that  the  two  bobbing  black  dots 
again  and  again  came  into  view. 

They  could  see  the  mare's  muzzle  flat,  extended 
toward  the  shore;  back  of  it,  upstream,  the  head  of 
the  man.  Whichever  brain  had  decided,  it  was  evident 
that  the  animal  was  staking  life  to  reach  the  shore  from 
which  it  had  been  swept  away. 

Far  out  in  midstream  some  conformation  of  the 
bottom  turned  the  current  once  more  in  a  long  slant 
shoreward.  A  murmur,  a  sob  of  hundreds  of  ob 
servers  packed  along  the  shore  broke  out  as  the  two 
dots  came  closer,  far  below.  More  than  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  downstream  a  sand  point  made  out,  offering  a 
sort  of  beach  where  for  some  space  a  landing  might 
be  made.  Could  the  gallant  mare  make  this  point? 
Men  clenched  their  hands.  Women  began  to  sob,  to 
moan  gently. 

When  with  a  shout  Jed  Wingate  turned  his  horse 
and  set  off  at  top  speed  down  the  shore  some  followed 
him.  The  horses  and  oxen,  left  alone,  fell  into  con- 

343 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

fusion,  the  wagons  tangled.  One  or  two  teams  made 
off  at  a  run  into  the  desert.  But  these  things  were 
nothing. 

Those  behind  hoped  Jed  would  not  try  any  rescue 
in  that  flood.  Molly  stood  wringing  her  hands.  The 
boy's  mother  began  praying  audibly.  The  voice  of 
Jim  Bridger  rose  in  an  Indian  chant.  It  was  for  the 
dead! 

They  saw  the  gallant  mare  plunge  up,  back  and 
shoulders  and  body  rising  as  her  feet  found  bottom  a 
few  yards  out  from  shore.  She  stood  free  of  the 
water,  safe  on  the  bar;  stood  still,  looking  back  of  her 
and  down.  But  no  man  rose  to  his  height  beside  her. 
There  was  only  one  figure  on  the  bar. 

They  saw  Jed  fling  off;  saw  him  run  and  stoop, 
lifting  something  long  and  heavy  from  the  water. 
Then  the  mare  stumbled  away.  At  length  she  lay 
down  quietly.  She  never  rose. 

"She  was  standing  right  here,"  said  Jed  as  the  others 
came.  "He  had  hold  of  the  reins  so  tight  I  couldn't 
hardly  open  his  hand.  He  must  have  been  dead  before 
the  mare  hit  bottom.  He  was  laying  all  under  water, 
hanging  to  the  reins,  and  that  was  all  that  kept  him 
from  washing  on  down." 

They  made  some  rude  and  unskilled  attempt  at  resus 
citation,  but  had  neither  knowledge  nor  confidence. 
Perhaps  somewhere  out  yonder  the  strain  had  been  too 
great;  perhaps  the  sheer  terror  had  broken  the  heart 
of  both  man  and  horse.  The  mare  suddenly  began  to 

344 


THE  CROSSING 

tremble  as  she  lay,  her  nostrils  shivering  as  though  in 
fright.  And  she  died,  after  bringing  in  the  dead  man 
whose  hand  still  gripped  her  rein. 

They  buried  Kelsey  of  Kentucky — few  knew  him 
otherwise — on  a  hillock  by  the  road  at  the  first  fording 
place  of  the  Snake.  They  broke  out  the  top  board  of 
another  tail  gate,  and  with  a  hot  iron  burned  in  one 
more  record  of  the  road : 

"Rob't.  Kelsey,  Ky.  Drowned  Sept.  7,  1848.  A 
Brave  Man." 

The  sand  long  ago  cut  out  the  lettering,  and  long 
ago  the  ford  passed  to  a  ferry.  But  there  lay,  for  a 
long  time  known,  Kelsey  of  Kentucky,  a  brave  man, 
who  kept  his  promise  and  did  not  rue  back,  but  who 
never  saw  either  California  or  Oregon. 

"Catch  up  the  stock,  men,"  said  Jesse  Wingate  dully, 
after  a  time.  "Let's  leave  this  place." 

Loads  were  repacked,  broken  gear  adjusted.  Inside 
the  hour  the  silent  gray  wagon  train  held  on,  leaving 
the  waters  to  give  shriving.  The  voice  of  the  river 
rose  and  fell  mournfully  behind  them  in  the  changing 
airs. 

"I  knowed  hit!"  said  old  Jim  Bridger,  now  falling 
back  from  the  lead  and  breaking  off  his  Indian  dirge. 
'I  knowed  all  along  the  Snake'd  take  somebody — she 
oes  every  time.     This  mornin'  I  seed  two  ravens  that 
flew  acrost  the  trail  ahead.     Yesterday  I  seed  a  rabbit 
ttin'  squar'  in  the  trail.     I  thought  hit  was  me  the 
345 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

river  wanted,  but  she's  done  took  a  younger  an'  a 
better  man." 

"Man,  man,"  exclaimed  stout-hearted  Molly  Win- 
gate,  "what  for  kind  of  a  country  have  you  brought 
us  women  to?  One  more  thing  like  that  and  my 
nerve's  gone.  Tell  me,  is  this  the  last  bad  river? 
And  when  will  we  get  to  Oregon?" 

"Don't  be  a-skeered,  ma'am,"  rejoined  Bridger. 
"A  accident  kin  happen  anywheres.  Hit's  a  month  on 
ter  Oregon,  whar  ye're  headed.  Some  fords  on  ahead, 
yes ;  we  got  ter  cross  back  ter  the  south  side  the  Snake 
again." 

"But  you'll  go  on  with  us,  won't  you?"  demanded 
young  Molly  Wingate. 

They  had  halted  to  breathe  the  cattle  at  the  foot  of 
lava  dust  slope.  Bridger  looked  at  the  young  girl  for 
a  time  in  silence. 

"I'm  off  my  country,  Miss  Molly,"  said  he.  "Be- 
yant  the  second  ford,  at  Fort  Boise,  I  ain't  never  been. 
I  done  aimed  ter  turn  back  here  an'  git  back  home  afore 
the  winter  come.  Ain't  I  did  enough  fer  ye?" 

But  he  hesitated.  There  was  a  kindly  light  on  the 
worn  old  face,  in  the  sunken  blue  eye. 

"Ye  want  me  ter  go  on,  Miss  Molly?" 

"If  you  could  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  me,  a  protec 
tion  to  us  all." 

"Is  hit  so!  Miss  Molly,  ye  kin  talk  a  ol'-time  man 
out'n  his  last  pelt!  But  sence  ye  do  want  me,  I'll 
sornter  along  a  leetle  ways  furtherer  with  ye.  Many 

346 


THE  CROSSING 

a  good  fight  is  spoiled  by  wonderin'  how  hit's  goin' 
to  come  out.  An'  many  a  long  trail's  lost  by  wonderin' 
whar  hit  runs.  I  hain't  never  yit  been  plumb  to  Cali- 
forny  er  Oregon.  But  ef  ye  say  I  must,  Miss  Molly, 
why  I  must ;  an'  ef  I  must,  why  here  goes !  I  reckon 
my  wimern  kin  keep  my  fire  goin'  ontel  I  git  back 
next  year." 


CHAPTER    XL 

OREGON  !  OREGON  ! 

THE  freakish  resolves  of  the  old-time  trapper 
at  least  remained  unchanged  for  many  days, 
but  at  last  one  evening  he  came  to  Molly's 
wagon,  his  face  grim  and  sad. 

"Miss  Molly,"  he  said,  "I'm  come  to  say  good-by 
now.  Hit's  for  keeps." 

"No?  Then  why?  You  are  like  an  old  friend  to 
me.  What  don't  I  owe  to  you?" 

"Ye  don't  owe  nothin'  ter  me  yit,  Miss  Molly.  But 
I  want  ye  ter  think  kindly  o'  old  Jim  Bridger  when  he's 
gone.  I  allow  the  kindest  thing  I  kin  do  fer  ye  is  ter 
bring  Will  Banion  ter  ye." 

"You  are  a  good  man,  James  Bridger,"  said  Molly 
Wingate.  "But  then?" 

"Ye  see,  Miss  Molly,  I  had  six  quarts  o'  rum  I  got  at 
Boise.  Some  folks  says  rum  is  wrong.  Hit  ain't. 
I'll  tell  ye  why.  Last  night  I  dr inked  up  my  lastest 
bottle  o'  that  Hundson's  Bay  rum.  Hit  war  right  good 
rum,  an  ez  I  lay  lookin'  up  at  the  stars,  all  ter  oncet 
hit  come  ter  me  that  I  was  jest  exactly,  no  more  an'  no 
less,  jest  ter  the  ha'r,  ez  drunk  I  was  on  the  leetle 
spree  with  Kit  at  Laramie.  Warn't  that  fine?  An' 

348 


OREGON!  OREGON! 

warn't  hit  useful?  Nach'erl,  bein'  jest  even  up,  I  done 
thought  o'  everything  I  been  fergettin'.  Hit  all  come 
ter  me  ez  plain  ez  a  streak  o'  lightnin'.  What  it  was 
Kit  Carson  told  me  I  know  now,  but  no  one  else  shall 
know.  No,  not  even  you,  Miss  Molly.  I  kain't  tell 
ye,  so  don't  ask. 

"Now  I'm  goin'  on  a  long  journey,  an*  a  resky  one; 
I  kain't  tell  ye  no  more.  I  reckon  I'll  never  see  ye 
agin.  So  good-by." 

With  a  swift  grasp  of  his  hand  he  caught  the  dusty 
edge  of  the  white  woman's  skirt  to  his  bearded  lips. 

"But,  James " 

Suddenly  she  reached  out  a  hand.     He  was  gone. 

******* 

One  winter  day,  rattling  over  the  icy  fords  of  the 
road  winding  down  the  Sandy  from  the  white  Cascades, 
crossing  the  Clackamas,  threading  the  intervening 
fringe  of  forest,  there  broke  into  the  clearing  at  Oregon 
City  the  head  of  the  wagon  train  of  1848.  A  fourth 
of  the  wagons  abandoned  and  broken,  a  half  of  the 
horses  and  cattle  gone  since  they  had  left  the  banks  of 
the  Columbia  east  of  the  mountains,  the  cattle  leaning 
one  against  the  other  when  they  halted,  the  oxen  stum 
bling  and  limping,  the  calluses  of  their  necks  torn,  raw 
and  bleeding  from  the  swaying  of  the  yokes  on  the 
rocky  trail,  their  tongues  out,  their  eyes  glassy  with  the 
unspeakable  toil  they  so  long  had  undergone ;  the  loose 
wheels  wabbling,  the  thin  hounds  rattling,  the  canvas 
sagged  and  stained,  the  bucket  under  each  wagon 

349 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

empty,  the  plow  at  each  tail  gate  thumping  in  its  lash 
ings  of  rope  and  hide — the  train  of  the  covered  wagons 
now  had,  indeed,  won  through.  Now  may  the  picture 
of  our  own  Ark  of  Empire  never  perish  from  our 
minds. 

On  the  front  seat  of  the  lead  wagon  sat  stout  Molly 
Wingate  and  her  husband.  Little  Molly's  cart  came 
next.  Alongside  the  Caleb  Price  wagon,  wherein  now 
sat  on  the  seat — hugging  a  sore- footed  dog  whose  raw 
hide  boots  had  worn  through — a  long-legged,  barefoot 
girl  who  had  walked  twelve  hundred  miles  since  spring, 
trudged  Jed  Wingate,  now  grown  from  a  tousled  boy 
into  a  lean,  self-reliant  young  man.  His  long  whip 
was  used  in  baseless  threatenings  now,  for  any  driver 
must  spare  cattle  such  as  these,  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed. 
Tobacco  protuberant  in  cheek,  his  feet  half  bare,  his 
trousers  ragged  and  fringed  to  the  knee,  his  sleeves 
rolled  up  over  brown  and  brawny  arms,  Jed  Wingate 
now  was  enrolled  on  the  list  of  men. 

"Gee-whoa-haw !  You  Buck  an*  Star,  git  along 
there,  damn  ye !"  So  rose  his  voice,  automatically  but 
affectionately. 

Certain  French  Canadians,  old-time  engages  of  the 
fur  posts,  now  become  habitants,  landowners,  on  their 
way  home  from  Sunday  chapel,  hastened  to  summon 
others. 

"The  families  have  come!"  they  called  at  the  Falls, 
as  they  had  at  Portland  town. 

But  now,  though  safely  enlarged  at  last  of  the  con- 
350 


OREGON!  OREGON! 

finement  and  the  penalties  of  the  wagon  train,  the 
emigrants,  many  of  them  almost  destitute,  none  of  them 
of  great  means,  needed  to  cast  about  them  at  once  for 
their  locations  and  to  determine  what  their  occupations 
were  to  be.  They  scattered,  each  seeking  his  place,  like 
new  trout  in  a  stream. 


CHAPTER    XLI 

THE    SECRETS    OF    THE    SIERRAS 

SAM  WOODHULL  carried  in  his  pocket  the 
letter  which  Will  Banion  had  left  for  Molly 
Wingate  at  Cassia  Creek  in  the  Snake  Valley, 
where  the  Oregon  road  forked  for  California.  There 
was  no  post  office  there,  yet  Banion  felt  sure  that  his 
letter  would  find  its  way,  and  it  had  done  so,  save  for 
the  treachery  of  this  one  man.  Naught  had  been 
sacred  to  him.  He  had  read  the  letter  without  an 
instant's  hesitation,  feeling  that  anything  was  fair  in 
his  love  for  this  woman,  in  his  war  with  this  man. 
Woodhull  resolved  that  they  should  not  both  live. 

He  was  by  nature  not  so  much  a  coward  as  a  man 
without  principle  or  scruple.  He  did  not  expect  to  be 
killed  by  Banion.  He  intended  to  use  such  means  as 
would  give  Banion  no  chance.  In  this  he  thought  him 
self  fully  justified,  as  a  criminal  always  does. 

But  hurry  as  he  might,  his  overdriven  teams  were 
no  match  for  the  tireless  desert  horse,  the  wiry  moun 
tain  mount  and  the  hardy  mules  of  the  tidy  little  pack 
train  of  Banion  and  his  companion  Jackson.  These 
could  go  on  steadily  where  wagons  must  wait.  Their 
trail  grew  fainter  as  they  gained. 

352 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  SIERRAS 

At  last,  at  the  edge  of  a  waterless  march  of  whose 
duration  they  could  not  guess,  Woodhull  and  his  party 
were  obliged  to  halt.  Here  by  great  good  fortune  they 
were  overtaken  by  the  swift  pack  train  of  Greenwood 
and  his  men,  hurrying  back  with  fresh  animals  on  their 
return  march  to  California.  The  two  companies 
joined  forces.  Woodhull  now  had  a  guide.  Accord 
ingly  when,  after  such  dangers  and  hardships  as  then 
must  be  inevitable  to  men  covering  the  gruesome  trail 
between  the  Snake  and  the  Sacramento,  he  found  him 
self  late  that  fall  arrived  west  of  the  Sierras  and  in 
the  gentler  climate  of  the  central  valley,  he  looked  about 
him  with  a  feeling  of  exultation.  Now,  surely,  fate 
would  give  his  enemy  into  his  hand. 

Men  were  spilling  south  into  the  valley  of  the  San 
Joaquin,  coming  north  with  proofs  of  the  Stanislaus, 
the  Tuolumne,  the  Merced.  Greenwood  insisted  on 
working  north  into  the  country  where  he  had  found 
gold,  along  all  the  tributaries  of  the  Sacramento.  Even 
then,  too,  before  the  great  year  of  '49  had  dawned, 
prospectors  were  pushing  to  the  head  of  the  creeks 
making  into  the  American  Fork,  the  Feather  River,  all 
the  larger  and  lesser  streams  heading  on  the  west  slopes 
of  the  Sierras;  and  Greenwood  even  heard  of  a  band 
of  men  who  had  stolen  away  from  the  lower  diggings 
and  broken  off  to  the  north  and  east — some  said,  head 
ing  far  up  for  the  Trinity,  though  that  was  all  unproved 
country  so  far  as  most  knew. 

And  now  the  hatred  in  Woodhull's  sullen  heart  grew 
353 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

hotter  still,  for  he  heard  that  not  fifty  miles  ahead  there 
had  passed  a  quiet  dark  young  man,  riding  a  black 
Spanish  horse;  with  him  a  bearded  man  who  drove  a 
little  band  of  loaded  mules !  Their  progress,  so  came 
the  story,  was  up  a  valley  whose  head  was  impassable. 
The  trail  could  not  be  obliterated  back  of  them.  They 
were  in  a  trap  of  their  own  choosing.  All  that  he 
needed  was  patience  and  caution. 

Ships  and  wagon  trains  came  in  on  the  Willamette 
from  the  East.  They  met  the  coast  news  of  gold. 
Men  of  Oregon  also  left  in  a  mad  stampede  for  Cali 
fornia.  News  came  that  all  the  world  now  was  in  the 
mines  of  California.  All  over  the  East,  as  the  later 
ships  also  brought  in  reiterated  news,  the  mad  craze  of 
'49  even  then  was  spreading. 

But  the  men  of  '48  were  in  ahead.  From  them, 
scattering  like  driven  game  among  the  broken  country 
over  hundreds  of  miles  of  forest,  plain,  bench  land 
and  valley  lands,  no  word  could  come  out  to  the  waiting 
world.  None  might  know  the  countless  triumphs,  the 
unnumbered  tragedies — none  ever  did  know. 

There,  beyond  the  law,  one  man  might  trail  another 
with  murder  stronger  than  avarice  in  his  heart,  and 
none  ever  be  the  wiser.  To  hide  secrets  such  as  thest; 
the  un  fathomed  mountains  reached  out  their  shadowy 

arms. 

##*#### 

Now  the  winter  wore  on  with  such  calendar  as  alti« 
tude,  latitude,  longitude  gave  it,  and  the  spring  of  '49 

354 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  SIERRAS 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"We've  done  well,  Jesse,"  at  length  said  portly  Molly 
Wingate.  "Look  at  our  place!  A  mile  square,  for 
nothing !  We've  done  well,  Jesse,  I'll  admit  it." 

"For  what?"  answered  Jesse  Wingate.  "What's  it 
for?  What  has  it  come  to?  What's  it  all  about?" 

He  did  not  have  any  reply.  When  he  turned  he 
saw  his  wife  wiping  tears  from  her  hard,  lined  face. 

"It's  Molly,"  said  she. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

KIT    CARSON     RIDES 

FOLLOWING  the  recession  of  the  snow,  men 
began  to  push  westward  up  the  Platte  in  the 
great  spring  gold  rush  of  1849.  In  tne  f°re' 
front  of  these,  outpacing  them  in  his  tireless  fashion, 
now  passed  westward  the  greatest  traveler  of  his  day, 
the  hunter  and  scout,  Kit  Carson.  The  new  post  of 
Fort  Kearny  on  the  Platte ;  the  old  one,  Fort  Laramie 
in  the  foothills  of  the  Rockies — he  touched  them  soon 
as  the  grass  was  green;  and  as  the  sun  warmed  the 
bunch  grass  slopes  of  the  North  Platte  and  the  Sweet- 
water,  so  that  his  horses  could  paw  out  a  living,  he 
crowded  on  westward.  He  was  a  month  ahead  of  the 
date  for  the  wagon  trains  at  Fort  Bridger. 

"How,  Chardon!"  said  he  as  he  drove  in  his  two 
light  packs,  riding  alone  as  was  his  usual  way,  evading 
Indian  eyes  as  he  of  all  men  best  knew  how. 

"How,  Kit!  You're  early.  Why?"  The  trader's 
chief  clerk  turned  to  send  a  boy  for  Vasquez,  Bridger's 
partner.  "Light,  Kit,  and  eat." 

"Where's  Bridger?"  demanded  Carson.  "I've  come 
out  of  my  country  to  see  him.  I  have  government 
mail — for  Oregon." 

357 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"For  Oregon?  Mon  Dieu!  But  Jeem"— he  spread 
out  his  hands— "Jeem,  he's  dead,  we'll  think.  We  do 
not  known.  Now  we  know  the  gold  news.  Maybe-so 
we  know  why  Jeem  he's  gone !" 

"Gone?    When?" 

"Las'  H'august-Settemb.  H'all  of  an'  at  once  he'll 
took  the  trail  h'after  the  h'emigrant  train  las'  year. 
He'll  caught  him  h'on  Fort  Hall ;  we'll  heard.  But  then 
he  go  h'on  with  those  h'emigrant  beyon'  Hall,  beyon'  the 
fork  for  Californ'.  He'll  not  come  back.  No  one 
know  what  has  become  of  Jeem.  He'll  been  dead, 
maybe-so." 

"Yes  ?  Maybe-so  not !  That  old  rat  knows  his  way 
through  the  mountains,  and  he'll  take  his  own  time. 
You  think  he  did  not  go  on  to  California?" 

"We'll  know  he'll  didn't." 

Carson  stood  and  thought  for  a  time. 

"Well,  its  bad  for  you,  Chardon!" 

"How  you  mean,  M'sieu  Kit?" 

"Eat  your  last  square  meal.  Saddle  your  best  horse. 
Drive  four  packs  and  two  saddle  mounts  along." 

"Oui?    And  where?" 

"To  Oregon!" 

"To  Oregon?    Sacre  'Fan!'    What  you  mean?" 

"By  authority  of  the  Government,  I  command  you 
to  carry  this  packet  on  to  Oregon  this  season,  as  fast 
as  safety  may  allow.  Take  a  man  with  you — two ;  pick 
up  any  help  you  need.  But  go  through. 

"I  cannot  go  further  west  myself,  for  I  must  get 

358 


KIT  CARSON  RIDES 

back  to  Laramie.  I  had  counted  on  Jim,  and  Jim's 
post  must  see  me  through.  Make  your  own  plans  to 
start  to-morrow  morning.  I'll  arrange  all  that  with 
Vasquez." 

"But,  M'sieu  Kit,  I  cannot!" 

"But  you  shall,  you  must,  you  will!  If  I  had  a 
better  man  I'd  send  him,  but  you  are  to  do  what  Jim 
wants  done." 

"Mais,  oui,  of  course." 

"Yes.  And  you'll  do  what  the  President  of  the 
United  States  commands." 


"That  packet  is  over  the  seal  of  the  United  States 
of  America,  Chardon.  It  carries  the  signature  of  the 
President.  It  was  given  to  the  Army  to  deliver.  The 
Army  has  given  it  to  me.  I  give  it  to  you,  and  you 
must  go.  It  is  for  Jim.  He  would  know.  It  must  be 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Circuit  Judge  acting  under 
the  laws  of  Oregon,  whoever  he  may  be,  and  wherever. 
Find  him  in  the  Willamette  country.  Your  pay  will 
be  more  than  you  think,  Chardon.  Jim  would  know. 
Dead  or  alive,  you  do  this  for  him. 

"You  can  do  thirty  miles  a  day.  I  know  you  as 
a  mountain  man.  Ride!  To-morrow  I  start  east  to 
Laramie  —  and  you  start  west  for  Oregon  !" 

And  in  the  morning  following  two  riders  left 
Bridger's  for  the  trail.  They  parted,  each  waving  a 
hand  to  the  other. 


359 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

THE    KILLER     KILLED 

A  ROUGH  low  cabin  of  logs,  hastily  thrown  to 
gether,  housed  through  the  winter  months  of 
the  Sierra  foothills  the  two  men  who  now,  in 
the  warm  days  of  early  June,  sat  by  the  primitive  fire 
place  cooking  a  midday  meal.     The  older  man,  thin, 
bearded,  who  now  spun  a  side  of  venison  ribs  on  a 
cord  in  front  of  the  open  fire,  was  the  mountain  man, 
Bill  Jackson,  as  anyone  might  tell  who  ever  had  seen 
him,  for  he  had  changed  but  little. 

That  his  companion,  younger,  bearded,  dressed  also 
in  buckskins,  was  Will  Banion  it  would  have  taken 
closer  scrutiny  even  of  a  friend  to  determine,  so  much 
had  the  passing  of  these  few  months  altered  him  in 
appearance  and  in  manner.  Once  light  of  mien,  now 
he  smiled  never  at  all.  For  hours  he  would  seem  to 
go  about  his  duties  as  an  automaton.  He  spoke  at 
last  to  his  ancient  and  faithful  friend,  kindly  as  ever, 
and  with  his  own  alertness  and  decision. 

"Let's  make  it  our  last  meal  on  the  Trinity,  Bill. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"Why?  What's  eatin'  ye,  boy?  Gittin'  restless 
agin?" 

360 


THE  KILLER  KILLED 

"Yes,  I  want  to  move." 

"Most  does." 

"We've  got  enough,  Bill.  The  last  month  has  been 
a  crime.  The  spring  snows  uncovered  a  fortune  for 
us,  and  you  know  it!" 

"Oh,  yes,  eight  hundred  In  one  day  ain't  bad  for 
two  men  that  never  had  saw  a  gold  pan  a  year  ago. 
But  she  ain't  petered  yit.  With  what  we've  learned,  an' 
what  we  know,  we  kin  stay  in  here  an'  git  so  rich  that 
hit  shore  makes  me  cry  ter  think  o'  trappin'  beaver,  even 
before  1836,  when  the  beaver  market  busted.  Why, 
rich  ?  Will,  hit's  like  you  say,  plumb  wrong — we  done 
hit  so  damned  easy !  I  lay  awake  nights  plannin'  how 
ter  spend  my  share  o'  this  pile.  We  must  have  fifty- 
sixty  thousand  dollars  o'  dust  buried  under  the  floor, 
don't  ye  think?" 

"Yes,  more.  But  if  you'll  agree,  I'll  sell  this  claim 
to  the  company  below  us  and  let  them  have  the  rest. 
They  offer  fifty  thousand  flat,  and  it's  enough — more 
than  enough.  I  want  two  things — to  get  Jim  Bridger 
his  share  safe  and  sound ;  and  I  want  to  go  to  Oregon." 

The  old  man  paused  in  the  act  of  splitting  off  a  deer 
rib  from  his  roast. 

"Ye're  one  awful  damn  fool,  ain't  ye,  Will?  I  did 
hope  ter  finish  up  here,  a-brilin'  my  meat  in  a  yaller- 
gold  fireplace;  but  no  matter  how  plain  an'  simple  a 
man's  tastes  is,  allus  somethin'  comes  along  ter  bust 
'em  up." 

"Well,  go  on  and  finish  your  meal  in  this  plain  fire- 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

place  of  ours,  Bill.  It  has  done  us  very  well.  I  think 
I'll  go  down  to  the  sluice  a  while." 

Banion  rose  and  left  the  cabin,  stooping  at  the  low 
door.  Moodily  he  walked  along  the  side  of  the  steep 
ravine  to  which  the  little  structure  clung.  Below  him 
lay  the  ripped-open  slope  where  the  little  stream  had 
been  diverted.  Below  again  lay  the  bared  bed  of  the 
exploited  water  course,  floored  with  bowlders  set  in 
deep  gravel,  at  times  with  seamy  dams  of  flat  rock 
lying  under  and  across  the  gravel  stretches;  the  bed 
rock,  ages  old,  holding  in  its  hidden  fingers  the  rich 
secrets  of  immemorial  time. 

Here  he  and  his  partner  had  in  a  few  months  of 
strenuous  labor  taken  from  the  narrow  and  unimport 
ant  rivulet  more  wealth  than  most  could  save  in  a  life 
time  of  patient  and  thrifty  toil.  Yes,  fortune  had  been 
kind.  And  it  all  had  been  so  easy,  so  simple,  so  un- 
agitating,  so  matter-of-fact!  The  hillside  now  looked 
like  any  other  hillside,  innocent  as  a  woman's  eyes,  yet 
covering  how  much!  Banion  could  not  realize  that 
now,  young  though  he  was,  he  was  a  rich  man. 

He  climbed  down  the  side  of  the  ravine,  the  little 
stones  rattling  under  his  feet,  until  he  stood  on  the 
bared  floor  of  the  bed  rock  which  had  proved  so  un 
believably  prolific  in  coarse  gold. 

There  was  a  sharp  bend  in  the  ravine,  and  here  the 
unpaid  toil  of  the  little  waterway  had,  ages  long,  carried 
and  left  especially  deep  strata  of  gold-shot  gravel.  As 
he  stood,  half  musing,  Will  Banion  heard,  on  the  ravine 

362 


THE  KILLER  KILLED 

side  around  the  bend,  the  tinkle  of  a  falling  stone,  lazily 
rolling  from  one  impediment  to  another.  It  might  be 
some  deer  or  other  animal,  he  thought.  He  hastened  to 
get  view  of  the  cause,  whatever  it  might  be. 

And  then  fate,  chance,  the  goddess  of  fortune  which 
some  men  say  does  not  exist,  but  which  all  wilderness- 
goers  know  does  exist,  for  one  instant  paused,  with 
Will  Banion's  life  and  wealth  and  happiness  lightly 
a-balance  in  cold,  disdainful  fingers. 

He  turned  the  corner.  Almost  level  with  his  own, 
he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  a  crawling  man  who 
— stooped,  one  hand  steadying  himself  against  the  slant 
of  the  ravine,  the  other  below,  carrying  a  rifle — was 
peering  frowningly  ahead. 

It  was  an  evil  face,  bearded,  aquiline,  not  unhand 
some;  but  evil  in  its  plain  meaning  now.  The  eyes 
were  narrowed,  the  full  lips  drawn  close,  as  though 
some  tense  emotion  now  approached  its  climax.  The 
appearance  was  that  of  strain,  of  nerves  stretched  in 
some  purpose  long  sustained. 

And  why  not?  When  a  man  would  do  murder, 
when  that  has  been  his  steady  and  premeditated  pur 
pose  for  a  year,  waiting  only  for  opportunity  to  serve 
his  purpose,  that  purpose  itself  changes  his  very  linea 
ments,  alters  his  whole  cast  of  countenance.  Other 
men  avoid  him,  knowing  unconsciously  what  is  in  his 
soul,  because  of  what  is  written  on  his  face. 

For  months  most  men  had  avoided  Woodhull.  It 
was  known  that  he  was  on  a  man  hunt.  His  questions, 

363 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

his  movements,  his  changes  of  locality  showed  that; 
and  Woodhull  was  one  of  those  who  cannot  avoid 
asseverance,  needing  it  for  their  courage  sake. 
Now  morose  and  brooding,  now  loudly  profane,  now 
laughing  or  now  aloof,  his  errand  in  these  unknown 
hills  was  plain.  Well,  he  was  not  along  among  men 
whose  depths  were  loosed.  Some  time  his  hour  might 
come. 

It  had  come !  He  stared  now  full  into  the  face  of  his 
enemy!  He  at  last  had  found  him.  Here  stood  his 
enemy,  unarmed,  delivered  into  his  hands. 

For  one  instant  the  two  stood,  staring  into  one  an 
other's  eyes.  Banion's  advance  had  been  silent.  Wood- 
hull  was  taken  as  much  unawares  as  he. 

It  had  been  Woodhull's  purpose  to  get  a  stand  above 
the  sluices,  hidden  by  the  angle,  where  he  could  com 
mand  the  reach  of  the  stream  bed  where  Banion  and 
Jackson  last  had  been  working.  He  had  studied  the 
place  before,  and  meant  to  take  no  chances.  His  shot 
must  be  sure. 

But  now,  in  his  climbing  on  the  steep  hillside,  his 
rifle  was  in  his  left  hand,  downhill,  and  his  footing, 
caught  as  he  was  with  one  foot  half  raised,  was  in 
secure.  At  no  time  these  last  four  hours  had  his  op 
portunity  been  so  close — or  so  poor — as  precisely  now ! 
He  saw  Will  Banion's  eyes,  suddenly  startled,  quickly 
estimating,  looking  into  his  own.  He  knew  that  be 
hind  his  own  eyes  his  whole  foul  soul  lay  bared — the 
soul  of  a  murderer. 

364 


THE  KILLER  KILLED 

Woodhull  made  a  swift  spring  down  the  hill,  scrambl 
ing,  half  erect,  and  caught  some  sort  of  stance  for  the 
work  which  now  was  his  to  do.  He  snarled,  for  he 
saw  Banion  stoop,  unarmed.  It  would  do  his  victim  no 
good  to  run.  There  was  time  even  to  exult,  and  that 
was  much  better  in  a  long-deferred  matter  such  as  this. 

"Now,  damn  you,  I've  got  you !" 

He  gave  Banion  that  much  chance  to  see  that  he  was 
now  to  die. 

Half  leaning,  he  raised  the  long  rifle  to  its  line  and 
touched  the  trigger. 

The  report  came;  and  Banion  fell.  But  even  as  he 
wheeled  and  fell,  stumbling  down  the  hillside,  his  flung 
arm  apparently  had  gained  a  weapon.  It  was  not  more 
than  the  piece  of  rotten  quartz  he  had  picked  up  and 
planned  to  examine  later.  He  flung  it  straight  at 
Woodhull's  face — an  act  of  chance,  of  instinct.  By 
a  hair  it  saved  him. 

Firing  and  missing  at  a  distance  of  fifty  feet,  Wood- 
hull  remained  not  yet  a  murderer  in  deed.  In  a  flash 
Banion  gathered  and  sprang  toward  him  as  he  stood 
in  a  half  second  of  consternation  at  seeing  his  victim 
fall  and  rise  again.  The  rifle  carried  but  the  one  shot. 
He  flung  it  down,  reached  for  his  heavy  knife,  raising 
an  arm  against  the  second  piece  of  rock  which  Banion 
flung  as  he  closed.  He  felt  his  wrist  caught  in  an 
iron  grip,  felt  the  blood  gush  where  his  temple  was  cut 
by  the  last  missile.  And  then  once  more,  on  the  narrow 
bared  floor  that  but  now  was  patterned  in  parquetry 

365 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

traced  in  yellow,  and  soon  must  turn  to  red,  it  came 
to  man  and  man  between  them — and  it  was  free ! 

They  fell  and  stumbled  so  that  neither  could  much 
damage  the  other  at  first.  Banion  knew  he  must  keep 
the  impounded  hand  back  from  the  knife  sheath  or  he 
was  done.  Thus  close,  he  could  make  no  escape.  He 
fought  fast  and  furiously,  striving  to  throw,  to  bend, 
to  beat  back  the  body  of  a  man  almost  as  strong  as 
himself,  and  now  a  maniac  in  rage  and  fear. 

The  sound  of  the  rifle  shot  rang  through  the  little 
defile.  To  Jackson,  shaving  off  bits  of  sweet  meat  be 
tween  thumb  and  knife  blade,  it  meant  the  presence  of 
a  stranger,  friend  or  foe,  for  he  knew  Banion  had 
carried  no  weapon  with  him.  His  own  long  rifle  he 
snatched  from  its  pegs.  At  a  long,  easy  lope  he  ran 
along  the  path  which  carried  across  the  face  of  the 
ravine.  His  moccasined  feet  made  no  sound.  He  saw 
no  one  in  the  creek  bed  or  at  the  long  turn.  But  new 
there  came  a  loud,  wordless  cry  which  he  knew  was 
meant  for  him.  It  was  Will  Banion's  voice. 

The  two  struggling  men  grappled  below  him  had  no 
notion  of  how  long  they  had  fought.  It  seemed  an  age, 
and  the  denouement  yet  another  age  deferred.  But 
to  them  came  the  sound  of  a  voice : 

"Git  away,  Will!    Stand  back!" 

It  was  Jackson. 

They  both,  still  gripped,  looked  up  the  bank.  The 
long  barrel  of  a  rifle,  foreshortened  to  a  black  point, 

366 


THE  KILLER  KILLED 

above  it  a  cold  eye,  fronted  and  followed  them  as  they 
swayed.  The  crooked  arm  of  the  rifleman  was  mo 
tionless,  save  as  it  just  moved  that  deadly  cricle  an 
inch  this  way,  an  inch  back  again. 

Banion  knew  that  this  was  murder,  too,  but  he  knew 
that  naught  on  earth  could  stay  it  now.  To  guard  as 
much  as  he  could  against  a  last  desperate  knife  thrust 
even  of  a  dying  man,  he  broke  free  and  sprang  back  as 
far  as  he  could,  falling  prostrate  on  his  back  as  he  did 
so,  tripped  by  an  unseen  stone.  But  Sam  Woodhull 
was  not  upon  him  now,  was  not  willing  to  lose  his  own 
life  in  order  to  kill.  For  just  one  instant  he  looked 
up  at  the  death  staring  down  on  him,  then  turned  to 
run. 

There  was  no  place  where  he  could  run.  The  voice 
of  the  man  above  him  called  out  sharp  and  hard. 

"Halt !    Sam  Woodhull,  look  at  me !" 

He  did  turn,  in  horror,  in  fascination  at  sight  of  the 
Bright  Angel.  The  rifle  barrel  to  his  last  gaze  became 
a  small,  round  circle,  large  as  a  bottle  top,  and  around 
it  shone  a  fringed  aura  of  red  and  purple  light.  That 
might  have  been  the  eye. 

Steadily  as  when  he  had  held  his  friend's  life  in  his 
hand,  sighting  five  inches  above  his  eyes,  the  old  hunter 
drew  now  above  the  eyes  of  his  enemy.  When  the  dry 
report  cut  the  confined  air  of  the  valley,  the  body  of 
Sam  Woodhull  started  forward.  The  small  blue  hole 
an  inch  above  the  eyes  showed  the  murderer's  man  hunt 
done. 

367 


CHAPTER    XLIV 

YET    IF    LOVE    LACK 

WINDING  down  out  of  the  hills  into  the 
grassy  valley  of  the  Upper  Sacramento,  the 
little  pack  train  of  Banion  and  Jackson,  six 
hardy  mules  beside  the  black  horse  and  Jackson's 
mountain  pony,  picked  its  way  along  a  gashed  and 
trampled  creek  bed.  The  kyacks  which  swung  heavy 
on  the  strongest  two  mules  might  hold  salt  or  lead  or 
gold.  It  all  was  one  to  any  who  might  have  seen,  and 
the  two  silent  men,  the  younger  ahead,  the  older  be 
hind,  obviously  were  men  able  to  hold  their  counsel 
or  to  defend  their  property. 

The  smoke  of  a  distant  encampment  caught  the  keen 
eye  of  Jackson  as  he  rode,  humming,  care- free,  the 
burden  of  a  song. 

"Oh,  then,  Susannah !"  admonished  the  old  mountain 
man,  and  bade  the  said  Susannah  to  be  as  free  of  care 
as  he  himself  then  and  there  was. 

"More  men  comin'  in,"  said  he  presently.  "Wonder 
who  them  people  is,  an'  ef  hit's  peace  er  war." 

"Three  men.  A  horse  band.  Two  Indians.  Go  in 
easy,  Bill." 

Banion  slowed  down  his  own  gait.  His  companion 
had  tied  the  six  mules  together,  nose  and  tail,  with  the 

368 


YET  IF  LOVE  LACK 

halter  of  the  lead  mule  wrapped  on  his  own  saddle 
horn.  Each  man  now  drew  his  rifle  from  the  swing 
loop.  But  they  advanced  with  the  appearance  of  con 
fidence,  for  it  was  evident  that  they  had  been  discovered 
by  the  men  of  the  encampment. 

Apparently  they  were  identified  as  well  as  dis 
covered.  A  tall  man  in  leggings  and  moccasions,  a  flat 
felt  hat  over  his  long  gray  hair,  stood  gazing  at  them, 
his  rifle  butt  resting  on  the  ground.  Suddenly  he 
emitted  an  unearthly  yell,  whether  of  defiance  or  of 
greeting,  and  springing  to  his  own  horse's  picket  pin 
gathered  in  the  lariat,  and  mounting  bareback  came  on, 
his  rifle  high  above  his  head,  and  repeating  again  and 
again  his  war  cry  or  salutation. 

Jackson  rose  in  his  stirrups,  dropped  his  lead  line 
and  forsook  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars  some  two  mule-pack  loads  of  gold.  His  own 
yell  rose  high  in  answer. 

"I  told  ye  all  the  world'd  be  here!"  he  shouted  back 
over  his  shoulder.  "Do-ee  see  that  old  thief  Jim 
Bridger?  Him  I  left  drunk  an'  happy  last  summer? 
Now  what  in  hell  brung  him  here?" 

The  two  old  mountain  men  flung  off  and  stood  hand 
in  hand  before  Banion  had  rescued  the  precious  lead 
line  and  brought  on  the  little  train. 

Bridger  threw  his  hat  on  the  ground,  flung  down 
his  rifle  and  cast  his  stoic  calm  aside.  Both  his  hands 
caught  Banion's  and  his  face  beamed,  breaking  into  a 
thousand  lines. 

369 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

"Boy,  hit's  you,  then!  I  knowed  yer  hoss — he  has 
no  like  in  these  parts.  I've  traced  ye  by  him  this  hun 
dred  miles  below  an'  up  agin,  but  I've  had  no  word  this 
two  weeks.  Mostly  I've  seed  that,  when  ye  ain't  lookin' 
fer  a  b'ar,  thar  he  is.  Well,  here  we  air,  fine  an'  fitten, 
an*  me  with  two  bottles  left  o'  somethin'  they  call 
coggnac  down  in  Yerba  Buena.  Come  on  in  an*  we'll 
make  medicine." 

They  dismounted.  The  two  Indians,  short,  deep- 
chested,  bow-legged  men,  went  to  the  packs.  They 
gruntled  as  they  unloaded  the  two  larger  mules. 

The  kyacks  were  lined  up  and  the  mantas  spread  over 
them,  the  animals  led  away  for  feed  and  water.  Bridger 
produced  a  ham  of  venison,  some  beans,  a  bannock  and 
some  coffee — not  to  mention  his  two  bottles  of  fiery 
fluid — before  any  word  was  passed  regarding  future 
plans  or  past  events. 

"Come  here,  Jim,,"  said  Jackson  after  a  time,  tin 
cup  in  hand.  The  other  followed  him,  likewise 
equipped. 

"Heft  this  pannier,  Jim." 

"Uh-huh?    Well,  what  of  hit?    What's  inter  hit?" 

"Not  much,  Jim.  Jest  three- four  hunderd  pounds  o' 
gold  settin'  there  in  them  four  packs.  Hit  hain't  much, 
but  hit'll  help  some." 

Bridger  stooped  and  uncovered  the  kyacks,  un 
buckled  the  cover  straps. 

"Hit's  a  true  fack!"  he  exclaimed.  "Gold!  Ef  hit 
hain't,  I'm  a  putrified  liar,  an'  that's  all  I  got  to  say!'' 

370 


YET  IF  LOVE  LACK 

Now,  little  by  little,  they  told,  each  to  other,  the  story 
of  the  months  since  they  had  met,  Bridger  first  ex 
plaining  his  own  movements. 

"I  left  the  Malheur  at  Boise,  an*  brung  along  yan  two 
boys.  Ye  needn't  be  a-skeered  they'll  touch  the  cargo. 
The  gold  means  nothin'  ter  'em,  but  horses  does.  We've 
got  a  good  band  ter  drive  north  now.  Some  we  bought 
an'  most  they  stole,  but  no  rancher  cares  fer  horses 
here  an'  now. 

"We  come  through  the  Klamaths,  ye  see,  an'  on 
south — the  old  horse  trail  up  from  the  Spanish  country, 
which  only  the  Injuns  knows.  My  boys  say  they  kin 
take  us  ter  the  head  o'  the  Willamette. 

"So  ye  did  get  the  gold!  Eh,  sir?"  said  Bridger,  his 
eyes  narrowing.  "The  tip  the  gal  give  ye  was  a  good 
one?" 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Banion.  "But  we  came  near  losing 
it  and  more.  It  was  Woodhull,  Jim.  He  followed  us 
in." 

"Yes,  I  know.  His  wagons  was  not  fur  behind  ye 
on  the  Humboldt.  He  left  right  atter  ye  did.  He  made 
trouble,  huh  ?  He'll  make  no  more  ?  Is  that  hit,  huh  ?" 

Bill  Jackson  slapped  the  stock  of  his  rifle  in  silence. 
Bridger  nodded.  He  had  been  close  to  tragedies  all  his 
life.  They  told  him  now  of  this  one.  He  nodded  again, 
close  lipped. 

"An'  ye  want  courts  an*  the  settlements,  boys  ?"  said 
he.  "Fer  me,  when  I  kill  a  rattler,  that's  enough.  Ef 
ye're  touchy  an*  want  yer  ree-cord  clean,  why,  we  kin 

371 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

go  below  an'  fix  hit.  Only  thing  is,  I  don't  want  ter 
waste  no  more  time'n  I  kin  help,  fer  some  o'  them 
horses  has  a  ree-cord  that  ain't  maybe  so  plumb  clean 
their  own  selves.  Ye  ain't  goin'  out  east — ye're  goin' 
north.  Hit's  easier,  an'  a  month  er  two  closter,  with 
plenty  o'  feed  an'  water — the  old  Cayuse  trail,  huh? 

"So  Sam  Woodhull  got  what  he's  been  lookin'  fer  so 
long!"  he  added  presently.  "Well,  that  simples  up 
things  some." 

"He'd  o'  got  hit  long  ago,  on  the  Platte,  ef  my  part 
ner  hadn't  been  a  damned  fool,"  confirmed  Jackson. 
"He  was  where  we  could  a'  buried  him  nach'erl,  in  the 
sands.  I  told  Will  then  that  Woodhull' d  murder  him 
the  fust  chancet  he  got.  Well,  he  did — er  ef  he  didn't 
hit  wasn't  no  credit  ter  either  one  o'  them  two." 

"What  differ  does  hit  make,  Bill?"  remarked  Bridger 
indifferently.  "Let  bygones  be  bygones,  huh?  That's 
the  pleasantest  way,  sence  he's  dead. 

"Now  here  we  air,  with  all  the  gold  there  ever  was 
molded,  an'  a  hull  two  bottles  o'  coggnac  left,  which 
takes  holt  e'enamost  better'n  Hundson's  Bay  rum. 
Ain't  it  a  perty  leetle  ol'  world  to  play  with,  all  with 
nice  pink  stripes  erroun'  hit?" 

He  filled  his  tin  and  broke  into  a  roaring  song : 

There  was  a  ol'  wldder  which  had  three  sons — 

Joshuway,  James  an'  John. 
An'  one  got  shot,  an'  one  got  drownedf 
An'  th'  last  un  got  lasted  an'  never  was  found — 

"Ain't  hit  funny,  son,"  said  he,  turning  to  Banion 
372 


YET  IF  LOVE  LACK 

with  cup  uplifted,  "how  stiff  likker  allus  makes  me  re 
member  what  I  done  f ergot?  Now  Kit  told  me,  thar 
at  Laramie " 

"Per  I'm  goin*  out  to  Oregon,  with  my  wash  pan  on 
my  knee !"  chanted  Bill  Jackson,  now  solemnly  oblivious 
of  most  of  his  surroundings  and  hence  not  consciously 
discourteous  to  his  friends ;  "Susannah,  don't  ye  cry !" 

They  sat,  the  central  figures  of  a  scene  wild  enough, 
in  a  world  still  primitive  and  young.  Only  one  of  the 
three  remained  sober  and  silent,  wondering,  if  one 
thing  lacked,  why  the  world  was  made. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WHOLE   WORLD 

AT  THE  new  farm  of  Jesse  Wingate  on  the 
Yamhill  the  wheat  was  in  stack  and  ready  for 
the  flail,  his  deer-skin  sacks  made  ready  to 
carry  it  to  market  after  the  threshing.  His  grim 
and  weather-beaten  wagon  stood,  now  unused,  at 
the  barnyard  fence  of  rails. 

It  was  evening.  Wingate  and  his  wife  again  sat  on 
their  little  stoop,  gazing  down  the  path  that  led  to  the 
valley  road.  A  mounted  man  was  opening  the  gate, 
someone  they  did  not  recognize. 

"Maybe  from  below,"  said  Molly  Wingate.  "Jed's 
maybe  sent  up  another  letter.  Leave  it  to  him,  he's 
going  to  marry  the  most  wonderful  girl!  Well,  I'll 
call  it  true,  she's  a  wonderful  walker.  All  the  Prices 
was." 

"Or  maybe  it's  for  Molly,"  she  added.  "Ef  she's 
ever  heard  a  word  from  either  Sam  Woodhull  or " 

"Hush !  I  do  not  want  to  hear  that  name !"  broke  in 
her  husband.  "Trouble  enough  he  has  made  for  us!" 

His  wife  made  no  comment  for  a  moment,  still 
watching  the  stranger,  who  was  now  riding  up  the  long 
approach,  little  noted  by  Wingate  as  he  sat,  moody  and 
distrait. 

374 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Jess,"  said  she,  "let's  be  fair  and  shame  the  devil. 
Maybe  we  don't  know  all  the  truth  about  Will  Banion. 
You  go  in  the  house.  I'll  tend  to  this  man,  whoever  he 
may  be." 

But  she  did  not.  With  one  more  look  at  the  ad 
vancing  figure,  she  herself  rose  and  followed  her  hus 
band.  As  she  passed  she  cast  a  swift  glance  at  her 
daughter,  who  had  not  joined  them  for  the  twilight 
hour.  Hers  was  the  look  of  the  mother — maternal, 
solicitious,  yet  wise  and  resolved  withal ;  woman  under 
standing  woman.  And  now  was  the  hour  for  her  ewe 
lamb  to  be  alone. 

Molly  Wingate  sat  in  her  own  little  room,  looking 
through  her  window  at  the  far  forest  and  the  mountain 
peaks  in  their  evening  dress  of  many  colors.  She  was 
no  longer  the  tattered  emigrant  girl  in  fringed  frock 
and  mended  moccasins.  Ships  from  the  world's  great 
ports  served  the  new  market  of  the  Columbia  Valley. 
It  was  a  trim  and  trig  young  woman  in  the  habiliments 
of  sophisticated  lands  who  sat  here  now,  her  heavy  hair, 
piled  high,  lighted  warmly  in  the  illumination  of  the 
window.  Her  skin,  clear  white,  had  lost  its  sunburn  in 
the  moister  climate  between  the  two  ranges  of  moun 
tains.  Quiet,  reticent,  reserved — cold,  some  said;  but 
all  said  Molly  Wingate,  teacher  at  the  mission  school, 
was  beautiful,  the  most  beautiful  young  woman  in  all 
the  great  Willamette  settlements.  Her  hands  were  in 
her  lap  now,  and  her  face  as  usual  was  grave.  A  sad 
young  woman,  her  Oregon  lovers  all  said  of  her.  They 

375 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

did  not  know  why  she  should  be  sad,  so  fit  for  love  was 
she. 

She  heard  now  a  knock  at  the  front  door,  to  which; 
from  her  position,  she  could  not  have  seen  anyone  ap 
proach.  She  called  out,  "Come !"  but  did  not  turn  her 
head. 

A  horse  stamped,  neighed  near  her  door.  Her  face 
changed  expression.  Her  eyes  grew  wide  in  some 
strange  association  of  memories  suddenly  revived. 

She  heard  a  footfall  on  the  gallery  floor,  then  on 
the  floor  of  the  hall.  It  stopped.  Her  heart  almost 
stopped  with  it.  Some  undiscovered  sense  warned  her, 
cried  aloud  to  her.  She  faced  the  door,  wide-eyed, 
as  it  was  flung  open. 

"Molly!" 

Will  Banion's  deep-toned  voice  told  her  all  the  rest. 
In  terror,  her  hands  to  her  face,  she  stood  an  instant, 
then  sprang  toward  him,  her  voice  almost  a  wail  in  its 
incredulous  joy. 

"Will!  Will!  Oh,  Will!  Oh!  Oh!" 

"Molly!" 

They  both  paused. 

"It  can't  be !  Oh,  you  frightened  me,  Will !  It  can't 
be  you!" 

But  he  had  her  in  his  arms  now.  At  first  he  could 
only  push  back  her  hair,  stroke  her  cheek,  until  at  last 
the  rush  of  life  and  youth  came  back  to  them  both,  and 
their  lips  met  in  the  sealing  kiss  of  years.  Then  both 
were  young  again.  She  put  up  a  hand  to  caress  his 

376 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD 

brown  cheek.    Tenderly  he  pushed  back  her  hair. 

"Will!  Oh,  Will!  It  can't  be !"  she  whispered  again 
and  again. 

"But  it  is!  It  had  to  be!  Now  I'm  paid!  Now 
I've  found  my  fortune !" 

"And  I've  had  my  year  to  think  it  over,  Will.  As 
though  the  fortune  mattered!" 

"Not  so  much  as  that  one  other  thing  that  kept  you 
and  me  apart.  Now  I  must  tell  you " 

"No,  no,  let  be !  Tell  me  nothing !  Will,  aren't  you 
here?" 

"But  I  must !  You  must  hear  me !  I've  waited  two 
years  for  this !" 

"Long,  Will !    You've  let  me  get  old !" 

"You  old?"  He  kissed  her  in  contempt  of  time. 
"But  now  wait,  dear,  for  I  must  tell  you. 

"You  see,  coming  up  the  valley  I  met  the  Clerk  of 
the  Court  of  Oregon  City,  and  he  knew  I  was  headed 
up  for  the  Yamhill.  He  asked  me  to  serve  as  his  mes 
senger.  'I've  been  sending  up  through  all  the  valley 
settlements  in  search  of  one  William  Banion,'  he  said 
to  me.  Then  I  told  him  who  I  was.  He  gave  me  this." 

"What  is  it?"  She  turned  to  her  lover.  He  held  in 
his  hands  a  long  package,  enfolded  in  an  otter  skin. 
"Is  it  a  court  summons  for  Will  Banion?  They  can't 
have  you,  Will !" 

He  smiled,  her  head  held  between  his  two  hands. 

"  'I  have  a  very  important  document  for  Colonel  Wil 
liam  Banion/  the  clerk  said  to  me.  'It  has  been  for  some 

377 


THE  COVERED  WAGON 

time  in  our  charge,  for  delivery  to  him  at  once  should 
he  come  into  the  Oregon  settlements.  It  is  from  His 
Excellency,  the  President  of  the  United  States.  Such 
messages  do  not  wait.  Seeing  it  of  such  importance, 
and  knowing  it  to  be  military,  Judge  Lane  opened  it, 
since  we  could  not  trace  the  addressee.  If  you  like — 
if  you  are,  indeed,  Colonel  William  Banion' — that  was 
what  he  said." 

He  broke  off,  choking. 

"Ah,  Molly,  at  last  and  indeed  I  am  again  William 
Banion !" 

He  took  from  the  otter  skin — which  Chardon  once 
had  placed  over  the  oilskin  used  by  Carson  to  protect 
it — the  long  and  formal  envelope  of  heavy  linen.  His 
finger  pointed — "On  the  Service  of  the  United  States." 

"Why,  Will!" 

He  caught  the  envelope  swiftly  to  his  lips,  holding  it 
there  an  instant  before  he  could  speak. 

"My  pardon!  From  the  President!  Not  guilty— 
oh,  not  guilty!  And  I  never  was!" 

"Oh,   Will,   Will!  That  makes  you  happy?" 

"Doesn't  it  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  yes!  But  I  knew  that  always!  And  I 
know  now  that  I'd  have  followed  you  to  the  gallons 
if  that  had  had  to  be." 

"Though  I  were  a  thief?" 

"Yes!  But  I'd  not  believe  it!  I  didn't!  I  never 
did!  I  could  not!" 

"You'd  take  my  word  against  all  the  world — just 

378 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD 

my  word,  if  I  told  you  it  wasn't  true?  You'd  want  no 
proof  at  all?  Will  you  always  believe  in  me  in  that 
way?  No  proof?" 

"I  want  none  now.  You  do  tell  me  that  ?  No,  no ! 
I'm  afraid  you'd  give  me  proofs!  I  want  none!  I 
want  to  love  you  for  what  you  are,  for  what  we  both 
are,  Will!  I'm  afraid!" 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  held  her  away 
arms'  length,  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"Dear  girl,"  said  he,  "you  need  never  be  afraid  any 
more." 

She  put  her  head  down  contentedly  against  his 
shoulder,  her  face  nestling  sidewise,  her  eyes  closed,  her 
arms  again  quite  around  his  neck. 

"I  don't  care,  Will,"  said  she.  "No,  no,  don't  talk 
of  things !" 

He  did  not  talk.  In  the  sweetness  of  the  silence  he 
kissed  her  tenderly  again  and  again. 

And  now  the  sun  might  sink.  The  light  of  the  whole 
world  Jby  no  means  died  with  it. 

00) 


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